Tag: Friends

Put All Your Eggs In One Basket

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It’s coming. / It’s here. — These are your options.

Because, if you don’t believe Happiness is here, or that it’s on it’s way — it isn’t.

I keep telling myself that Belief is about something more soulful — more spiritual. But, I’m finding, a lot of the time — it’s not. For me, Belief, is as simple as trusting my own timing. Try as I may try to simplify the challenges in my life — the resolution finds me on it’s own time. Not on mine.

Timing can rule our Happiness. And, I think, innately, we know this. It explains why we constantly curse the uncanny consistency of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We always tell ourselves that there’s something we should have done differently. If we’d been some other way, things would be better — we would be happier.

But, Belief can only mirror our hypothetical lives. In reality, Happiness works around the constructs of timing. Belief builds on our timing and it’s constant imperfection. Where Happiness is concerned, our missteps are just part of the process.

Stop asking yourself if this is the right time or the right person or the right place. These kinds of questions don’t get us any closer to Happiness. It behooves us to ask them. They slow us down. Instill fear. They open the door to perfectionism which, really, is just our fear in disguise.

Sometimes our timing does, in fact, suck. We’re left wide open to failure. And then — it actually happens — we fail. It’s a terrifying lesson that I’ve learned over and over again. And, would you believe that it only took me thirty-two years to figure out that my failure is the number one thing that I’ve got going for me? — Because, from the rubble of my failures, I have created myself. And, today, I’m really liking the person I’ve become.

Timing is our greatest teacher. All those jobs, relationships, and family fall-outs that left you broken and confused — how many times did you throw your hands up and ask, why? Why do I have to go through this? Do this? Be this? Lose this? — And, how many times were you able to answer those questions, years later?

All the seemingly insurmountable obstacles I’ve faced — turned out to be the seeds for a Happiness I am only, just now, starting to watch push up from the dirt. For as long as I can remember, I have hated my timing. Things came too late — left too early. Or so I thought.

Timing is like the sky or the ocean. You can map the storms and the predict tides — but they can’t be controlled. And, if you really want to experience it — your Happiness — you have to understand that it’s something you’ll never really comprehend. Timing isn’t ours to manage. And, releasing yourself from that responsibility is nothing short of life changing.

Let yourself be exhausted by the puzzling and unpredictable adventures of your life — not by trying to conquer the unconquerable. Belief in our timing is akin to freedom. And some days, failure is the name of the fucking game. Quit beating yourself up. — Tomorrow, the sky will still be there. The ocean too.

At some point in my process, I started to realize that all my questions about timing were just ways for me to avoid what made me uncomfortable. — Not the right time? There’s always next time! Not the right person? Bail. Not the right job? Quit. — I never gave anything a chance. Mostly, because I was scared. Blaming your timing is a really great way to miss out on the things, places, and people that have the power to change you and help you grow.

I have been uncomfortable for the majority of my life. Prone to overthinking, over-analyzing, and anxiety. — I’ve waited for things to change or fix themselves. For people to love me. For bosses to appreciate me. For parents to approve of me. For friends to back me up. I didn’t demand anything because I was waiting for time to give it to me.

Happiness is not a waiting game. You need to hustle. Put all your eggs in one basket — let that basket be the timing of your life. Let it be the Belief that all the inconvenience, absence, and disappointment, led you to this moment — a moment where things actually pan out. The bumps and blemishes on your life’s timeline leave you with an appreciation for your Happiness. Timing is about owning your discomfort.

Being uncomfortable will map your obstacles on the way to Happiness. Face them. You’ll see where your failure has meaning. Belief in your timing is just another form of surrender. — And time reminds us of just how much we have to give. We allow ourselves to become cogs in a bigger machine without even noticing it. And, to operate as a part of something instead of apart from it, is timing’s greatest gift to us.

Happiness. — It’s coming. / It’s here. — Get a fucking basket.

Burn, Baby. Burn.

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Martyrs are crazy, man.

I remember reading about Joan of Arc for the first time when I was a kid and thinking: This chic is fucking nuts.

Yet, I turned each page, unable to tear my eyes away from her gruesome end. Her expression, stoic, as her face disappeared into a haze of smoke and flames. I couldn’t fathom a world where someone would burn for her Beliefs. But, the older I get, the more I learn — people do this everyday. And, usually, it’s not for God’s sake.

The truth is, like it or not, we’re all a little bit martyr-y. I’ve been picking this theory apart, because — it bugs me. I don’t like the idea of people killing themselves, literally or figuratively, in the name of something else — especially expecting praise.

Since my Year of Happiness began, I’ve devoted a lot of time to discovering how my Happiness has been thwarted by my own martyr-like Beliefs and actions.

I’m gonna lay some Belief smack-down on y’all: We’re all selfish, narcissistic, idealistic, and self-serving. — Some of the time. — It’s called Being Human. And, I’m here to tell you that you’re supposed to fuck up and, occasionally, be an asshole. If you’ve been conditioned by your parents, family, coworkers, significant others, children, or friends to believe otherwise, you’ve got some serious martyr-issues to deal with yourself.

People who tell you that they do everything from a selfless place — are liars. Even the most selfless people get pleasure and happiness from the good acts they perform. Martyrdom, by definition, is self-serving. That is to say, to a martyr, to serve God is to serve one’s self. And, I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. Serving other people is THE BEST thing we can do. But, the thing about martyrdom is — to do it right — you can’t expect anything in return. That’s the rub. And, the part where most people fuck up. Unless, of course, you’re Joan of Arc.

But, I’m not here to talk-up theologian mumbo-jumbo. I’m here to tell you that your Belief and commitment to your own Happiness, doesn’t come with a list of prerequisite actions. You’re not selfish or idealistic to a fault if your priority in life is Happiness — Your Happiness.

I think that was the crux of my problem. I always felt that I owed someone — that there was a price to pay for feeling happy. — I had to have a certain job, look a certain way, talk a certain way, act a certain way. And, because I never lived up to my own impossible standards, I unknowingly held a fundamental Belief that I didn’t deserve better. And, that Belief was all-encompassing.

This week, I tackled a lot of the Beliefs I grew up with. Some from home, some from school, some that I’d created, myself, in adulthood. None were very positive. But, more importantly — none of them were true.

As we grow into adults, our little-kid Beliefs grow too. We never revisit the flawed system into which we’ve built ourselves. And, we forget that we wrote all these Beliefs during a time in our lives when we didn’t have the capacity to comprehend the doctrine to which we pledged our faith.

We’re never taught as kids that — Belief is flexible. — It is.

So often, we find ourselves feeling inadequate, powerless, and alone. But, if we leverage our Beliefs, we’ll find that this is never the case. We are, in every moment we live — Worthy, capable, and supported, each of us, integral parts of this incredible celestial ensemble. If your life is a testament to the things you value, shouldn’t the first thing on your list be Yourself? Your Happiness?

This is your gift to the world. — You. — Your unique being and all the gifts you already posses.

Happiness, I’m discovering, grows from a very small place within us. It has an uncanny ability to permeate into all areas of our being — if we let it. But, first, we must hold a Belief, even if it is just a small one, that we are worthy of the Happiness we desire.

I was a dumpy kid. I didn’t have a lot of friends, and, the ones I did have were dumpy too. We supported each other. But, we never believed that we belonged — not at the cool table, or at the pretty-girl-clique parties, or to get picked for school sports teams. And, maybe, that was true back then. But, I think, it’s more likely that we let a little bit of chub and big crew of mean girls get us down.

We were always good enough. But, we never believed it. And, for me, finding Happiness now, is about revisiting those things I internalized long ago. Eradicating ridiculous, outdated Beliefs that were never true. Finding my Happiness, largely, has been slowly silencing the voices that have been lying to me for as long as I can remember.

My advice? If you really want to be happy, don’t be a martyr for the sake of the self-deprecating voice you created to explain the unfairness of your youth. That voice is ridiculous and has no bearing on the person you’ve become. That voice only silences the one you’ve been given by the Universe. The one that serves you and everyone around you.

Martyring yourself for accolades doesn’t make anyone happy, especially you. More importantly, it doesn’t change the past. Real change takes place when our Beliefs reflect the people we have become, today.

Belief is flexible.

And, with few tweaks, I think you’ll be surprised how fast Happiness will light you up.

No inferno necessary.

 

One Face To Rule Them All

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Photo Apr 26, 1 42 51 PM

I’ve been a lot of things. — But, I’ve never been two-faced.

I’ll say exactly what I’m thinking or I won’t say anything at all. No-holds-barred or total silence. That’s how I roll. When I first moved to the West Coast, I got a lot of flack for my New York City attitude and candor. Portland may be progressive, but, ladies with loud, fast, and foul mouths were a commodity in my circle.

At first, that made me self conscious. I got a lot of looks, like, “Did she say that out loud?” or “Wow, she’s obnoxious.” But once I established who was a part of my tribe, I started to realize that being genuine — despite my volume, speed, and vulgarity — will always be an asset.

My mom talks about being “an open book.” The whole “what you see is what you get” approach to living. Sometimes it can feel like you’ve got a lot to lose when you put everything out there. Humans are freakin’ complex . At any given time, we have access to a lot more than just one face. And, when you’re unapologetically you, you put that one face out there to be judged. The sad truth is, no matter how good/kind/genuine you are — someone will always judge you harshly.

Surrendering those faces you think you need, is essential to your Happiness. The only face you really need, is the one that sings your soul and honors your intuition. Scary? Hell yes. But, when you’re genuinely you, Happiness is pulled toward you like a magnet, because you no longer have the stress of managing the fake-faces that you’ve grown accustomed to wearing.

Surrendering everything this month has been far more magical than I’d anticipated. I never imagined that, in under four weeks, I would be feeling more genuine than I ever have in my life. I’m learning that when we are living in joy — or at the very least, attempting to — we become available to ourselves in new, unpredictable ways.

Wear your own face. Just the one. — Always. It is the sincerest form of Surrender you can practice. In a place of Surrender, with one, true face, we can be our most authentic selves. And, from this place of ingenuity, we can be the most present for ourselves and for others.

Even if your Happiness hasn’t been running full throttle, I hope you’ve managed to tag along with me this past month. The last four weeks have shown me that Happiness is only as far away as you’ve thrown it.

I am really excited about what’s coming. It’s going to be big. For me — it’s already big.

Here’s my Year of Happiness round-up if you’re late to the party:

Month 1: Surrender

Week 1: Start where you are. — Happy is a choice. So, choose it! The timing is never going to be perfect and it won’t feel truly organic for awhile. So, just start. Smile more. Do things that you love. Make the people you love a batch of cookies. Start here, start now. Start big, start small — Just start.

Week 2: Slow down. — I know. I know. You want some Happiness immediately. We all do. But, Surrender is a process that involves patience and reflection. It’s not a race. Take your time, because, the more thorough you are now, the more Happiness you’ll have room for later. Be deliberate. Don’t rush like I did — it’ll save you BIG TIME on speeding fines.  A cliché proverb worth repeating: The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. ~ Lao Tsu

Week 3: Write a new story. — Surrendering who you were is hard, but, hanging on to the old, musty version of yourself is harder. Being present for the life you’re living today makes reaching for Happiness a heck of a lot easier. The past made you who you are today — so surrendering your old, sad stories may leave you feeling a little lost — but you’re not losing anything. Create your new story from a place of joy, and watch Happiness start showing up for you in new and beautiful ways.

Week 4: Face yourself. — Sometimes surrendering to your most authentic self is scary. There are times you’ll feel rejected or judged. But, more often than not, being who you are — just you — not someone you wish you were, will attract the people who fit seamlessly into your life. Being genuine attracts genuine people and genuine people bring with them Happiness beyond measure.

Thank you, my lovely readers, for being here. If you’re still following along, I want you to know how much I appreciate your being a part of my amazing tribe.

 

 

As-Is, Oregonian

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Oregonian

We don’t have to say goodbye. To the people. The places. The things.

We can just let them be. — Who they are. Where they are. As they are.

This is my big lesson in letting go. The one I needed to learn. My unavoidable and inevitable truth.

My mother and I pack up my apartment, and, I wish it were different. I wish that my last moments here, in this place, weren’t tip-toeing around my life’s possessions, all of which are strewn haphazardly across the floor. I wish that the big, black garbage bags — one for Goodwill and one for the dumpster — didn’t sit in the middle of my living room, slinking, dark portals to the sad and hopeless lost worlds that await my unwanted past. But we continue — dismantling this world as I know it, piece by piece.

It helps to remember that — I can come back. Maybe in 5 years. Maybe 10. On a plane, or, in a car. On another road trip — maybe with some new beau, or on business, or I don’t know — with a baby. I can’t know how I’ll return to this place. And, I think that’s the thing that scares and excites me the most. Who will I become without this place? Will I like her? Will I miss this woman I am now? Revile her?

Who can say what I’ll be when I return to Portland? I don’t know. — I can’t know. — What I’ll be wearing. What job I’ll have taken time off from to make the trip back. Until that moment, I will not know whether or not I’ve found the illusive thing I’ve always been seeking.

So, instead, I do it. I let go. — I make peace with what’s here. Now. — Who I am. Now.

The most difficult thing, is this: Letting go of everything. Allowing it all to just be — as is. Not knowing how my dreams will return to me, or, how I’ll return to them. In 12-Step, this is called — turning it over. And, it’s the thing that I have always wanted to do, but, never actually did. And, here I am, — allowing it. Placing it all into someone else’s hands, because I am tired of wringing my own.

No promises or commitments. Just time and space. A strange, uncertain portal to my destination — like the garbage bags, sitting in the middle of the living room floor.

But, that’s the way I want to tie it all up. My sobriety. My love. My city. — My letting go. Memorizing all the people, places, and things that held me together. Keeping them somewhere safe, as I turn, and walk the other way.

I will place all these moments into a cranial time capsule. I don’t know that it’s something that I want to write. It’s something I prefer to feel. And, feeling, that’s something I learned to do here — in Portland.

I tape up boxes. I clank through kitchen drawers and cupboards. I clear my cache. I pack up what I need and I throw the rest into the black-hole-garbage-bags in the middle of the living room floor. — I make room for new things. I convince myself to forget about the ways in which I’ll leave, and return, to this place.

In just hours, I will no longer be an Oregonian. And, maybe, I never was one. But, in order for me to leave — I have to believe: I was. I have to believe that in the same way this place made me who I am, it also allowed me to become what it is. Oregon is inside me now. An integral part. Maybe even the central part.

So, I don’t have to say goodbye. — Not even to myself. I can allow it all to just be. As is.

Me. My Oregon. My Portland.

The people. The places. The things. — Who they are. Where they are. As they are.

 

Photo: Allison Webber; http://www.allisonwebber.photography/

 

The Great Squirrel Chase

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This weekend, I evicted a squirrel from my apartment.

I first saw his ratty, grey tail peeking out from under my enormous television set. First, I panicked. Next, I reached for my yoga mat. Which, obviously, I proceeded to wield as an unruly weapon.

Even in my hysteria, it seemed simple enough. — I just had to lock the cat in the back bedroom, open the front door, and then usher my squirrel guest out, with gusto, flopping my yoga mat this way and that.

As it turned out, we were both quite terrified. So, I called my friend Tony who lives across from me in our apartment complex. No answer. Then, I tried my landlord. No answer. Then, I called my father — in New York City. Though separated by five thousand miles, he was the one who did not fail me. And while he did laugh at me like a hyena for five minutes, he also remained on the line for my intense, steady, and, dare-I-say-it — hunter-like — progression of profanity. Which, progressed as follows:

“Holy shit! Oh my God he’s in the closet now! Fuck! He’s making noises! Holy fucking shit, I can’t see him! What if he fucking bites me, Dad? Dad — Stop laughing! That stupid fucker just ran into the kitchen. God, that asshole’s a stupid motherfucker. THE FRONT DOOR IS OPEN YOU ASSHOLE!!! Jesus fucking Christ, he just ran out the front door. He was, like, fuckin’ airborne Dad. He’s out. Holy shit. He’s out! Fuck.”

My heart was beating like rapid fire. — And, there I was, yoga mat in hand. — Alive.

In truth, I’m rarely present. I run over the past in my mind, I plan the future, I design escapes and intrigue. But, I’m not here. It’s tough to get me in the moment.

One evening, my ex, after hearing me spout off about this or that, asked me how it came to be that Ram Dass was my hero — my guru — if I was constantly struggling to “Be Here Now.” — “Why didn’t I try harder to live in the present?” He wondered. I didn’t have an answer. It’s hard to explain to someone else how you can love a person that has the one, intangible thing that you want most, but, can never seem to grasp. It’s not coveting. It’s reverence. And, it’s nearly impossible to describe to someone who cannot comprehend any spirit that’s bigger than their own.

It’s funny, because that very same ex got me a framed “Be Here Now” poster as a gift. — A reminder I guess. It’s purple with a white lotus flower in the center. And, even though my ex is gone, the poster remains, situated happily on my mantle. So, after I had called, texted, emailed, and tweeted to everyone I knew — I plopped down on my couch to draw in my breath and stare at my purple-poster. I smiled with my teeth for the first time in months.

Excitement. Joy. Suspense. Hilarity. A SQUIRREL. Here. Now. IN MY APARTMENT.

That squirrel was my gift. Maybe from Baba himself. The moment where I was reminded: I am a real, breathing creature, wielding a yoga mat and taming wild — albeit tiny — beasts. Even when the moment had passed — the tiny creature bounding out over my two-step stoop, the feeling he awakened in me remained. — A feeling that will not escape me so quickly.

Sometimes, we can only love those that are present — without us. We can bask in their light. Their awareness. Their true presence. We can read the words that they have spilled across thousands of pages in countless books, we can watch their YouTube channels, we can sing chants along with Krishna Das. We seek out the presence.

But, sometimes, it will come to you: A squirrel who shits all over your house —while you chase it wildly with a yoga mat — while your father laughs in your ear — while your heart pumps in your chest. At the end of it all, you watch something leap to freedom. — And, it’s you.

I thank the purple poster and, for old time’s sake, I text my ex.

Because, I need to tell someone — I’m here. Now.

“Now is now. Are you going to be here, or not?” — Baba Ram Das

On The Ignorance Of Shmoes

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Photo Feb 03, 10 28 49 PM

If you get sober — it’s bound to happen. A shmoe will weigh-in on your recovery.

And, I hope, by then you’ll have grown a thick skin. I hope that you’ll have learned that the only opinion that truly matters — is your own. And, I hope that you’ll have all the tools you need to get past the fact that someone who doesn’t know you or your story — thinks it’s OK to make passive-aggressive judgments about you, your life, and the people who choose to love you.

It’s all part of playing ball.

Though, if you’re wise, being judged will get you thinking. It will beg important questions of you. Like — What is my recovery? Who, beyond myself, has the power to make it legitimate? Anyone? And, how will I thwart attacks from people who just don’t understand?

People who aren’t sober — don’t understand what it means to get sober. They don’t know what it takes. And, they certainly don’t know what it took you. Usually, if they’re still drinking or using, even if they are normal drinkers or recreational drug users, they’re hyper-aware of the fact that you’ve done something they haven’t. Our dark intuition fears what it recognizes. — A highly advanced and amazingly brilliant feature that’s built into our personal self-defense systems. We weigh-in on what threatens us, because it gives us the illusion of dominance and control. — But, don’t be fooled. Erroneous thoughts hide the keys to our power. Which is to say: We can not be harmed by our same-ness — only healed.

One thing that getting sober has afforded me — is the understanding that at no time am I ever completely in control. I fight that assertion, because I am, and always will be — stubborn. But, in many ways, I have become wise. And, in sobriety, I am able to surrender to the judgment of my own mind. I accept that the judgment of others is only a reflection of themselves. I no longer endeavor to define myself for you — it wastes my time. And, I’ve wasted too much time already.

It’s about what I believe. What I know.

And, those of you who sit in judgment will eventually find that, it’s you who are the hot-messes. You’ll put up your armor and insist that the world has been done-to-you, but, I’m here to tell you: That’s just a lie you’re telling yourself. I know better than anyone — we’ve done it to ourselves.

We stay. We have another drink. We do another line. We write pretty lies so that we can read them back to ourselves and pretend they’re true. We wallow in a past that’s done and gone. We relive moments that have lost all their meaning. We create meaning where there is none. And we say it’s unfair when, all along, it’s us who have been standing in the same. exact. place. — I know. I’ve done it.

I’d be a liar if I told you that I don’t judge you too, Shmoe. But, what I say about you between my ears — stays there. I’m a friend of Bill W. — I know about restraint of pen and tongue. But, there will always be an appropriate time for speaking out. For owning our guts. For wearing our skin.

So, throw your words at me. I’ve heard them all before. — I’ve said them all before. My skin is thick. My mind is clear. My heart is sure.

My recovery — it’s mine.

And, Shmoe, there aren’t words you can write, say, or sing that will ever take that away from me.

 

 

 

 

Angels We Have Heard, Are High

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xmas

Angels, if they show up at all, will show up in varying states of sobriety.

I learned this over the weekend while helping out a friend who is laid up at home, recovering from ankle surgery. If you decide to show up for someone who takes prescription drugs like a normal person — you may end up getting more than you bargained for.

Being of service to an immobile, normal drinker meant that I got to pour whiskey. Because, as the best of us addicts know, the fastest way to kick start your pain relief is to chase your pills with liquor — straight, strong, and brown. So, I did what any good alkie does — I employed my somewhat questionable nursing techniques and administered the good stuff.

When I pulled the cork from that bottle, it made the squeak-pop-ah! sound I remember a little too well. That spicy perfume — it burst into the air under my nose like a vapor firework. BOOM. Happy Fucking Holidays! Glorious whiskey. It’s been years. Years. But, it comes back to me like an old lover  — that wood, fire, and sweetness. I poured 2 fingers into a small glass and carried it out to my friend — feeling like I was one of the 3 fucking kings.

There aren’t many people that will remind you of who you are while they are miserable and writhing in pain. And, there aren’t many angels that will show up when you actually need them. But, somewhere between episodes of various HBO series and cheesy holiday movies, something happened to me. I went from trying to be someone else’s savior to being saved.

Since getting sober, showing up for people means something different. It means owning the woman I am when I walk into the room and offering what I actually have to give — knowing it’s enough. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to do that. And, apparently, it took a hopped-up Christmas angel to remind me that the person I am is a helluva lot better than the person I’ve been forcing myself to be.

So, it turns out, I did get the angel I’ve been praying for —  but even better — I got a totally badass angel with a bionic ankle that has a steel plate, 2 pins, and, like, 10 metal screws. And, even after 5 rounds of Oxycodone and 4 fingers of whiskey, he still managed to find kind things to say to me, even though it was me who was supposed to be the moral support. I guess I forgot that the broken bits inside our hearts need just as much care as our shattered bones. And, as fate would have it, that winged Christmas junkie with an elevated leg and a taste for Stumptown cold brew, he did all the fixing — my fixing — all from his horizontal position.

So this year, I’m ringing as many bells as I possibly can in hopes that my crack-baby angel gets his ankle back soon, and you should too.

This holiday season, lose the bows and the little black dresses. Show up to the Christmas party in worn out jeans with a stack of rom com DVDs.  Because, sometimes, pouring the whiskey is far better than drinking it. And, if you find yourself bar tending for the right angel, you may be reminded that — you were always enough.

Gloria, In Excelsis Deo.

 

 

Pardoning The Turkey-Bird

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Photo Dec 02, 9 31 58 PM

If you’re in the mood for a sentimental Thanksgiving retrospective — you’re shit outta luck.

There will be no jovial, light hearted fluff piece where I wax poetic on my many, zany family characters nor will I dramatize the hilarious-pseudo-tragedy of some overcooked turkey disaster. Because, this year, my family was in New York and I’m a vegan.

The one thing I must note, after the events of this Thanksgiving weekend, is the serendipitous nature of life — the law of attraction, fate, God’s will — call it what you want. Sometimes the universe will fork something over that’s too good for telling. The kind of holiday story that can be tied up with a big, red bow and stuck under our existential Christmas trees like a present for each one of us to open with glee, whilst sipping peppermint hot cocoa. The kind of story that does best living in our hearts. A holiday tale that sounds better between our ears than it does between periods, dashes, and commas.

Thanksgiving Day, I drove to a friend’s house with three huge bags full of frozen Tofurky pizzas, guacamole, and coconut ice cream. I slowed on Belmont Street. As I approached the Horse Brass Pub, I felt it — the cosmic pull. I felt my foot pulse on the brake. And, truly, I considered it — stopping there for just one drink. I could feel my fingers wrapped around a rocks glass. I could hear the scratched, smokey laughter of the three, old men sitting next to me. I felt the vibration of that solemn energy which always hangs in the air of bars on holidays. You can feel it — the nights where everyone who’s ponied up to the bar knows — they should be somewhere else. I recall the permission that just one drink could afford me — how I could forgive myself for a lifetime of letting my love and my joy escape me.

I’m not sure what moved me. Maybe it was the the thawing pizza and melting ice cream, or, maybe it was the thought of my friend sitting alone in his house, but, I decided to accelerate. I decided to forgo the one drink that would have turned into my entire holiday. As I drove past the bar, casting my gaze out of the passenger window, I saw them — locked gates. The bar windows were dark, their neon signs coiled and black. THANKSGIVING. Suddenly I became  aware — stopping here — was never my decision.

Give thanks. It’s so much bigger than we are — this life. I’ve chosen to be sober in an attempt, however feeble, to have the best life possible — the life that I was meant to be living before I lost myself. But, more often than not, being sober is hard, and staying sober is harder. When I decide how to walk the path, too many times, I end up stranded. I watch my imagined life and how it continues to fall short of my expectations. I wander down the “safe” path when, all along, the universe has been calling me to travel the uncharted road.

So, this Thanksgiving, I decide that I am no longer going to decide. Right there on Belmont, I learned to forgive — I pardoned my inner-Turkey-bird.

During the holidays, I tap into the childish wonder I once possessed. I listen and I watch for magic. And, when I do that — the path finds me. The world falls into place, however haphazardly. And, I keep driving.

Because, the gate is locked, friends are waiting, and the bag of frozen groceries is melting.

Haunted

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blondes

Ghosts. Some will stay with you. Some will leave you.

It goes far beyond trick or treat. Many of my ghosts still go “Boo!” in the night, but, most of them haunt me from afar. Actually, some of my ghosts aren’t dead at all — they’re very much alive.

I still find it difficult to believe that this is my third, sober Halloween. The first was euphoric. My first holiday after getting clean, I sat on a chilly porch in a big, grey hoodie. I wore a knit animal hat with my best friend, who had one too. We laughed, passed out candy, and I felt like — for the first time — I had finally discovered what I wanted in life and that I had it — sitting there on that porch — sober. My second Halloween, I was completely lost. This time last year, I was more haunted than ever. I was flanked by ghosts — most of which, weren’t even mine. I wore a blonde wig. I sat, with over a year of sobriety, wishing I were somewhere else — someone else. I wanted to change a situation that wasn’t mine to change. I ignored my own fear. I hid from it. I took a smug selfie, which I posted on Facebook with the caption: “So, blondes really do have more fun.” I thought that if I typed it out, maybe I would believe it were true — It wasn’t. Even my smirk lied.

This year, I don’t know what to expect. I feel a ghost walking next to me. Part of me wants to run. Part of me wants to offer up my skeleton-hand. Sometimes the only way to chase away spooks is to face them. Look them in the eye. And, sometimes, it’s best to realize that ghosts are ghosts, and to leave them, where they belong, in the ground.

Sobriety makes choices like these, easier. I know what’s practical, rational, and even wise. But, knowing has no bearing on my impulse. When I feel, I feel big. My heart opens like a flower, or it seizes up like the breaks on a runaway train. I’ve lived in my own extremes. My first and second Halloween in sobriety were my typical modus operandi — High/Low. Utopia/The Underworld. So, what’s next? What follows up the two, opposite ends of the spectrum? Normalcy? Mediocrity? Boredom? Stability? Do I want those things?

I think of that first year, my friend, smiling, in his blue-cat-hat. How I shoved Reece’s Peanut Butter cups into my face and thought: This is what it’s really about — Joy. Laughter. Freedom. Love. — That porch was cold, but heat radiated from a new place in my heart and I felt a warmth I hadn’t realized I had inside myself. I think how,  a year later, that same warmth had burned out. How even warm rooms felt cold. How ghosts filed in and took what wasn’t theirs to take. How I hid inside myself and kept smiling. I didn’t know — A blonde wig wouldn’t fool anyone. Even  myself.

I wish I had some crumb of wisdom for you in this post. I wish I could offer something honest and true that would carry some weight. A bit of hope. A story where all the costumes fit. A story where the candy doesn’t rot your teeth. But, all I can think about is how it feels — being haunted. Quiet, secretive, and dark. I suppose it’s only appropriate that as All Hallows’ Eve nears, all the undead and invisible spirits have come to pay me a visit. My own heart-hinges are creaky and they echo here in my haunted-house-head.

I offer up a prayer for the dead. For the ghosts that still haunt me and for those that have gone their own way. It’s the best I can do. I pray that, this year, things fall on even ground. That there is happiness and reverence. That, whether my wig is on or off, I am who I am — without fear.

As for the ghost at my side — there’s no escaping it — I reach out my skeleton-hand.

 

Speed Bumps

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Photo Jul 29, 7 24 00 PM

Go fast enough and something or someone will slow you down.

The past few months, I’ve found that detaching from my chaos comes with it’s own discomfort. Without mayhem to cling to, I find that I’m helplessly lost. I’m unaccustomed to ease. And, letting go of heartache is, in itself, a melancholy practice. My mind goes static. I forget why I’m here. I long for whiskey. So, seeking solace, I return to my war stories — reminders that ease is a gift, not a punishment.

A year before I got sober, I sat across from Kevin, a friend and fellow drunk. We passed a 1.5 liter bottle of shitty chardonnay back and forth. It was a wet, cold night. The wine was warm. I remember the black and yellow label, peeling up from the bottle at its edges. Kevin’s apartment felt eerie — haunted. The air was musty and stale. Every table, counter, and bookshelf was littered with wine bottles, beer cans, and children’s toys.

We sat there, without pretense, miserable in our cups. I mourned my failed relationship, and he, the collapse of his family. The sorrow was palpable.  There was nothing to say to each other. So, we drank.

When the wine was gone, we sulked out into the rain. We walked to a local bar that had Friday night karaoke and found a table with some fair-weather friends. We drank whiskey until we couldn’t see. I remember belting out Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart” at the top of my lungs, doubling over after the the final note, unsure if I was going to cry or be sick.

When the bartender announced last call, Kevin and I shared a familiar glance — the well was dry. We shuffled with sunken shoulders to the door, too drunk to walk. I tripped over my own soggy boots. Kevin stumbled beside me, in an attempt to keep me upright. The rain fell hard on us both and I remember my jacket felt heavier with each clumsy step.

Half way home, I tripped and fell over a raised speed bump in the middle of a quiet street. My hands hit the asphalt hard. I rolled onto my back and let my spine arch over the raised curve in the road. The rain fell down in fat drops, each one drawing a straight line from the sky to my face. Kevin, now feet ahead, doubled back to help me.

“Just leave me here. I want to die.” — I remember how the words felt inside my mouth before they escaped my lips like black vapor. I had been too drunk to be dramatic — I meant it.

“Come on Sarah, get up.” Kevin’s voice echoed in my head as if we were inside a tunnel. He pulled at my arms. No use — I was dead weight. The world slowed, and then, it went dark.

The next morning I woke, strewn across my bed. My hands were bloody and scraped. My jeans clung to my legs, filthy and wet. In the mirror, my arms were freckled with red and purple bruises. Kevin had dragged me home. I walked into my living room, every bone and muscle — pulled and sore. Kevin slept, with a peaceful expression, on the couch under my blue afghan. His face was soft and still and, for a moment I likened him to an angel — then, I walked into my bathroom to find he had vomited in my sink, on my floor, and in my bathtub.

When I first got sober, I thought about Kevin a lot. Before I went to rehab, we’d grown apart. Our messes were too big to coexist together. I worried for him. I often entertained the idea of leaving a 12-Step pamphlet in his mailbox. But, I never did.

A few months back, while flicking through photos on Instagram, I was greeted by Kevin’s face. Bright eyes replaced his sunken ones. His skin shone bright and pink, not the sickly, sallow yellow I remembered. He smiled, an honest smile, unlike any we’d exchanged between chugs of wine. He held his beautiful, blonde son close to his chest. Content. Happy. In the next photo — his “6 Month” 12-Step sobriety chip was proudly displayed.

Sometimes, I see Kevin in the supermarket with his son. We don’t say hello — we just smile. There were no words back then, and so it remains. It is unspoken. We both know something now that we hadn’t back then — Ease.

There will always be speed bumps. Sometimes you will trip, sometimes you will get up on your own, and sometimes you will be dragged home by the arms. But, there is a lesson in the delay. A chance to lay there with your back on the asphalt and your eyes to the sky.

It is on our darkest road that we are called to order. Listen for it. On the hard days, I can still hear him  — “Come on Sarah. Get up.”

Stay saucy,

Sarah