Tag: Shit!

Bed Rest

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Christina's+Bedroom

This past week, while quarantined in my bed with an unknown virus, I had a pseudo-shaman-eureka-moment.

Maybe it was the dehydration, or, maybe it was the 19 hours of sleep that I got the night before, but, I woke up to find shadows dancing on the ceiling, feeling completely alone, and yet, somehow, completely capable of caring for my own well being. After years of feeling like a perpetual child, I had a moment where I began to understand, I think, it what it is to actually be an adult — it was completely devastating — and liberating.

I would never have arrived at this moment if I weren’t sober. Because, self-reliance isn’t something you find at the bottom of a rocks glass. In my drinking days I was reliant on at least 1 other person at all times — a Mr. Jim Beam — and most of the time,  2 people, if we’re counting Tony — my favorite bartender.

How did I get here — Sobriety? Adulthood? When did I become responsible enough to care for this person?

I can hardly remember. And, I still forget my own strength. I’ve always pawned my victories. There’s something incredibly scary about being in control, especially when you feel like you should be anything but.

In my sick bed — bored with streaming television, fatigued by books, and with little energy to move, I found myself wondering when my determination, my heart — the parts that got me sober — stopped beating with wild fervor. Sure, I still go through the motions. I take my obligatory morning shower. I sit in traffic. I shuffle my feet to work. I chuckle at my boss’ jokes. But, everyday, I’m still just waiting. Waiting for something to happen.

When did I stop getting out of bed? I’ve been ill for a week, but, it feels like so, so much longer.

Staring at the ceiling, things start to come together. Though, truly, nothing really comes to us while we’re laying in bed — or while we’re standing still. The universe has never been perfect or logical or sequential when delivering the goods. I’ve always had to meet the stars half way.

I must choreograph the movements. I have to dance it. To make it. To write it. And for the first time I think, maybe, I get it: You have to treat adulthood the same way you would alcoholism or the flu. — Sleep it off.

I decide to set my alarm. I’m getting up. I’m going.

I’ve got plans to meet the stars half way there.

 

 

**Artwork By: Andrew Wyeth; Christina’s Bedroom, 1947, Watercolor on Paper.

All Roads Lead To Rome

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Photo Nov 05, 6 46 45 AM

I am a terrible navigator.

Since getting sober, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been lost. Whenever I find myself rehashing my own mistakes, re-examining all the wrong turns, I pick up one of my 12-Step coins. I let it warm my hands. My time — encapsulated in a little, metal circle. A reminder that things are only as far away from us as we allow them to be. I find myself asking — again: Why did I choose this direction? How has all this time gotten away from me?

I’ve stayed on the wrong road before — even when I knew I’d end up lost. Is it fear I’ll never find the right road that keeps me trudging, ever onward? Fear that I’ll become even more lost than I already am? Why don’t I just turn back and ask for directions at the gas station 15 miles behind me? I don’t know — and it’s my guess that I’m not meant to.

So, I consider it — staying on this road that will eventually spit me out somewhere unplanned.

New warning signs come from behind me, swept up in an autumn breeze that pulls the leaves off the tree of my sobriety. I’m having trouble deciphering my marching orders from the things I’m supposed to ignore. Can something be right and wrong simultaneously? Probably. But, as usual, everything I wish were clear — isn’t. The longer I stay here, walking endlessly forward, the closer the answer becomes:  The truth — That’s the road I want. Even if is does go on forever, without mercy.

Yes. Sweet, sweet honesty. The bring-er of all things unpleasant. A truth that will require my admitting that, yes, I turned down this — the wrong road — willingly. All these crooked turns live somewhere in my heart. My own decisions are at the eye of the storm. I want to hide it, my creased map of poor choices. But, a lesson I’ve learned for certain: Bottling up this kind of truth — is dangerous. Risky-fucking-business. Once sealed, the pressure mounts. The truth will attempt an escape before I’m ready. But, ready or not, here it comes.

So, I pay a visit to a person I trust. I unleash the beast. Because, sometimes, you have to let the truth out, first, to the wrong party. You have to say the words. You have to let the truth wet your lips before you seek out its intended recipient. When you’ve got a bottle of truth, you’ve got two options — drink it or spill it.

I decide to spill. I pour it out like a bottle of cheap, red wine. I let it stain the carpet.

The truth is, sometimes, I take the wrong road on purpose. Because, sometimes, that’s the only way you’ll find it —

The road that leads you home.

 

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.

 

Peripheral Visions

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Photo Oct 21, 5 29 00 PM

I don’t worry about the obvious things.

When I enter a state of worried-panicked-frenzy, I know better than to examine what’s right in front of my nose. I have always managed to keep those details well tended. The thing I am wary of: The periphery.

I, like many alkies and addicts, am very good at keeping up appearances. I know what to say and how to say it — even to myself. I mastered that skill long, long ago. Back while I was still drinking, I had to convince myself, and you, that I was not only OK, but, better than OK. — Great. Stellar. Perfect.

These days, I often find myself painfully sober. So, I keep up other appearances. Without the booze, emotions and feelings become a special-kind-of-complicated — communicating them, containing them, and sometimes hiding them — even more so. I feel it, the hair on my arms stands up as the pub turns on it’s magical-magnetic-tracking-device. I fight the pull. But, I keep quiet, because I’m OK. — I think.

But, that’s how it happens. Or, so I’m told. Seasoned, sober old-timers will tell you that it starts, first, with that teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, little thought — You’re OK. The second thought becomes — well, a bourbon might end up being OK too. And, the third thought — there’s no time for that — because you’re already seated on a bar stool. Struck drunk.

It isn’t obvious. All these little things appear innocuous. The fucking periphery.

So, I tread lightly. I can’t see where or how all the shit starts to pile up. But, I’m starting to notice my own cracks and how they’ve widened. I’m no fortune teller. I can’t say when or how, or even if, it will collapse. Yeah. Maybe, it won’t collapse. But, it’s there — the little voice that tells me — It. Just. Might. Collapse.

The not-so-obvious feeling. That’s the one that worries me.

On a Friday night, I stay in as a precaution. I sit at the dining room table and I write it down in Sharpie marker on a little, maroon notepad — the most obvious thing I can think of: Don’t fuck it up.

I pour myself another cup of coffee.

It’s tenuous and tenacious — my sobriety. In this moment I respect it’s power. I allow my unwise inclinations to dissolve. I let them go. I don’t judge them.

Lots of things can happen, the good and the bad. So, I decide to open my eyes a little bit wider. I monitor the periphery closely.

In a still moment, my little feelings subside. My coffee mug is still warm in my hands. I’m here. Now. And — I’m OK.

Better than OK. — I’m Great. Stellar. Perfect.

 

Strangers With Candy

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stranger

Sometimes, I don’t know myself.

Getting sober has been a crazy evolution.  I’ve glided, then bounced, through various stages of metamorphosis. But, despite charting my own movements, I’m still a stranger.

What’s even scarier than not knowing the person I’ve become — is liking her. She sees things in a new, easy-going way. She’s funny. She doesn’t care about crap that doesn’t matter — for the most part anyway. She’s more and more consistent with every month that passes. And, sometimes, that means she’s a consistent mess, but there’s a stability in her clutter that feels like some kind of Darwinian progress.

She’s shown me that when I let myself cave and make some room,  I have the ability to develop into a different, better version of myself. For a time, I kept things as small as possible — contained them. I used to think that if any one thing got too big — it would all go to shit. Back then, I was set on taking things. Now, the space I inhabit is given to me. There isn’t an internal struggle for territory any longer. I’m kinder to myself. I respect my own wisdom. And, while I will still break my own rules, my own promises, and occasionally my own heart — I know that I can trust myself to see things as they are.

A fog has lifted. My mind no longer talks in a desperate, panicked voice. I’m less apologetic: Life’s too short for desperation. — Take me or leave me.

This stranger I’ve allowed to inhabit my space — I listen to her — even if I choose to ignore her advice. Like me, she is sensitive and pragmatic, but, she knows where a bit of tough love and recklessness will serve her — and us. She has good ideas. Sometimes, I even think I trust her.

So I do this thing — this dancing with myself. And, it’s not so bad. We cut a rug almost as well as my father and I do at family weddings. This woman suit I wear — it fits better than when I first tried it on. I’m almost comfortable. Maybe the older, more rigid version of myself has finally softened. And, suddenly, this person I never intended to be — the one I avoided — has become the best version of me yet. Go figure.

Sometimes strangers will offer you candy — let yourself be tempted. This other version of me — She was patient. She was kind. She moved slowly, allowing me to change without seeing or feeling it. She snuck into my day to day being. And, just like that — I was someone new.

Like a chameleon, I shed that skin — old feelings and people — it feels good. I discover that those things we hold on to so desperately are the things that we need to let go of most. Discarding the older version of yourself, the one that no longer fits, is liberating — like tossing out your “fat jeans.” It’s more than a costume change. It’s a declaration.

Give in. Go without a fight. Evolve.

Take the candy.

 

 

 

 

Just For Laughs

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Photo Oct 07, 7 05 36 PM

My giggle has snowballed.

What started off as a thin curve in the corner of my mouth, now parts my teeth and lips. Old, stale air busts out of my lungs, exhaling dust, like a door being pulled off an ancient, sealed tomb. It’s more than just a breath — I let everything go. I once sat, tight-lipped and quiet, but now — wild noises erupt from my face.

Laughter. It’s happening.

At unpredictable times, with unpredictable rhythms, and in unpredictable places. It’s disconcerting — and glorious.

Up until recently, laughter was something I used with caution — I guarded it. I covered my mouth with my hands. Laughter seldom passed these lips that, for a long while, only spoke solemn words. Back then, I let all the jesters in my life perform without reward. I held on tightly to a pain that, I was sure, laughter would invalidate. So, it leaked it out in small spurts, like little coughs, that barely sounded.

I have since learned to let things escape.

Now, I hold my knees together while my stomach shakes. I laugh — tears streaming from the corners of my eyes, running over my cheekbones — which are sore from smiling. Sometimes, I think I need to be sedated. But, instead of quieting the squeals of my sweet abandon — I let them loose. It frees me up. It makes space for the things that need the room. It allows others to do the same. The word “infectious” is not an appropriate one here. This thing — this audible joy — is not a disease. It’s the cure.

Laughter is its own form of permission. The first time I set it free — along with the ancient air that sat trapped in my gut — I felt like I might be sick. I didn’t know what I was letting go of. I have learned to embrace the vacancy. There is just an empty space now, but, it’s not a void that needs filling. So, I leave it — happily unoccupied.

Today, I snort out my pleasure like a pig in shit. I sit in front of the TV screen and let it hit the chords I cannot hit myself. I let a friend’s sarcasm rub me the right way. I feel it — my own fresh air — rushing up the sides of my chest. I belt out chuckles that travel from the couch to the kitchen.

Laughter is the great necromancer. Something in me is alive again.

I feel it rise in my throat. I throw my head back. I let it escape me.

Now, who’s got a good joke?

Queen Of Tides

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Photo Oct 01, 6 43 09 AM

The tide goes out.

Fucking planetary shifts. Everything feels like it’s moving but, in truth, it all remains the same.

I’ve been toggling between complete abandon and steadfast rigidity. Even in my sobriety, there is lack of balance. I make subtle shifts in an attempt to adjust, but, I’m still unsure if I’m putting my weight on the right foot. I only know one thing for sure: I cannot keep standing still.

Change is like pulling teeth. Gritty, bloody, then sore. I’m the Queen of Comfortable. I like knowing what’s next. Guarded. Predictable. Safe. But I’m finding, these days, that I’ve started to lose interest in safety. Being stationary — a statue in status quo — has never been my forte. But, moving in a different direction is scary. There are only certain people and things I can count on — what if they don’t move when I do?

I ask myself, should I listen to my mother? Or God? Or my heart? — Are they all the same? Is the crazy, homeless guy outside my apartment window my guru? — Probably not, a friend tells me. So who’s the expert? Is it me? Maybe that little voice going off inside me isn’t wrong. Starting over is hard. Starting from scratch is harder. I try to remember that I’ve become skilled at wading through the changing tides.

I wonder how many things I’ll change my mind about this week. Which dreams I’ll abandon — And what I’ll exchange them for.

I sometimes think about what I’m missing while I’m busy giving myself lectures on why things can’t and won’t turn out well. Being careful, playing my cards right, waiting until the iron is hot, then striking — it’s all a satin bow on my rotting pile of procrastination. I’m tired of waiting. For a long time it was someone else who held my strings in place. Now, I’ve no one to blame but myself.

I lay quietly in the dark — I allow myself to hear the sad thoughts that make my heart turn to glop. It’s the stillness, not the mayhem, that draws the tide back in — gravity. The water glides with such ease, when it’s finally pulled back into the well at the ocean’s core, it leaves behind soft lines in the sand — they wait under the waves until the water peels back like wrapping paper.

The moon is up. And, I think — maybe I’ll do something crazy.

Everything is different. Gravity.

The tide comes in.

 

The Other Shoe

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photo(16)

Imagine it: Everything works out.

It’s a fantasy that every alcoholic/addict has at some point. Each of us has been tied to the pendulum on the downswing, and, almost always,  we have learned to travel at high velocities — hurtling ourselves toward impending disaster. Catastrophe has been bequeathed to us in perpetuity.  So, these days, I find myself wondering — what is the meaning of this? This uncharted feeling. Is it — happiness?

No. It can’t be.

For a drunk, it’s expected that, with sobriety, the release from some amount of psychic pain is imminent. Certain issues — more often than not — resolve automatically as a result of the whiskey-fueled-inferno being extinguished. But, do not mistake a temporary resolution for normalcy. No. — It has been my long standing belief that Alkies, such as myself, never graduate to “hunky-dory status.” There is no way to truly leave behind the murky half-memories of a crazed existence — those spells of insanity made possible only by excessive quantities of bourbon, angst, and the constant threat of emotional squalor. This “hunky-dory”? — A myth. I’m certain of it. Or, am I?

I tap my foot nervously while I sit, comfortably, at my kitchen table. I’ve been living here, in this apartment, for almost three years. Even with nothing hanging on my walls, there is a sense of permanence. A stability. A reassuring goodness that, today, is decidedly — off. I woke up this morning  grappling with an unsettling feeling that — I do not feel unsettled. A notion so foreign that, in its ease, lies its own inexplicable difficulty.

When does the other shoe drop?

Is this faith? — Moving in and out of my own equilibrium? I hang tight to some invisible force that tethers me.  A strong and strange pull that’s enough to carry the full weight of me. I’m moving into an upswing — I think. I feel my feet release from gravity.

This is it — a new feeling — an uncomfortably good one too.

On the way out the door, I lace up my sneakers, real tight — just in case.

 

dop·pel·gäng·er

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Photo Sep 16, 9 18 24 PM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday morning, I changed seven times.

When I looked up from buttoning the shirt I would unbutton seconds later, I expected to see someone else staring back at me in the mirror. But — it’s always her.

I turned to face my profile and pull at the bottom of my shirt. I was running late and didn’t have time to change again, but — I did anyway.

I’m not sure when this happened — but my reflection has become some strange sort of foe. It appears we agree on simple things like: cotton versus polyester, but, the clothes hang off us differently. Colors distract us.  Most of our wardrobe is black. And her expression is always sullen — to match our sweaters. But, things shift. I’m starting to see colors explode through the seams. I feel her fight the smile that creeps up at the corners of my mouth.

Across the river, at work, her reflection finds me again. She glares out from the glass doors of my office building, melting in the morning light like a Dalí painting. I shift my red tote bag around my torso to cover my waist. There’s no hiding from her though — she sees through things. Totes. Camisoles. Layers of mascara. Thick, glossy nail polish. Geeky frames. Bras. Boots. She catches me at angles that others do not.

My own disconnect still surprises me. She’s an imposter. I can’t read her.

I want her to look some other way. I want her to laugh more. I miss that — my own laughter and how it escapes wildly — a thousand big bangs imploding in my chest. Suddenly, I want to laugh at everything. I bite the side of my cheek.

I check my teeth in the ladies’ room mirror. A big, toothy smile. Is that happiness? Laughter? I’m not sure I’d even recognize it. But, truthfully, there’s not much of anything I recognize these days — It leaves me space to feel something new.

On the drive home, my eyes meet hers in the rear view. I decide only one of us will survive the summer. And — it’s me.

I turn up the stereo so loud that the bass shakes the little, white cat that’s glued to my dash. In a line of cars, waiting to cross the Ross Island Bridge, I pull my hair loose from its tight-tied bun. My auburn locks fall softly around my ears and the dying wind of summer kicks them up behind my headrest. I pull off my cardigan, in my eighth and final costume change of the day, and let my left shoulder bake in the sun.

Today, I’m showing up. — Myself. Alone. Take it or leave it. I dump my doppelgänger on the West bank of the Willamette.

As I make my way over the bridge, Mt. Hood welcomes me back to the East side. I drive up Division and turn down 16th Ave. I let myself get lost myself in a maze of circular streets, crowded with babies and bikers. I pull over. I turn off the engine. — I think I’m alone now.

Seat belt still fastened, with five minutes to spare, I throw my head back and I laugh, hard, before making my solo debut.

 

Maps

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Photo Sep 07, 4 45 37 PM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday, I celebrated two years clean and sober.

I once thought that sobriety would forever be the beacon, lighting my way. Yet now, more than ever, I find myself in the dark.

It has taken two years to learn that there is no way of knowing the path.

I do know this — Sobriety is not the road — it is the mile marker. Sobriety is the daily reminder: There is light. Where my own light comes from, and how it continues to shine, I do not know. But, it emanates from a place inside of me that, two years ago, I would have denied existed. Today, it glows hot like a coal.

In my second year of sobriety, I have shown up  for and stepped away from things and people. I’ve taken action and made decisions that once would have required copious amounts of whiskey. I have watched moments of my life unravel and then bloom with a happiness I still do not understand. And I have let go of my still beating heart, like a balloon, and watched it float away into an unforgiving sky, wondering if I will ever feel it again — love.

I have learned that we do not recover from some things. There are some wounds that will never cease to sting. But, if we treat them with care, acknowledge them with honesty, and bandage them properly — they cease to slow us down. Instead, their momentary aches become reminders of who we are, who we were, and who we are becoming. My scars are the road map. I wear them like the tattoos I do not have.

I have learned to smile with my teeth. I do not hide behind my own inadequacy. Perhaps the most poignant lesson I have learned in these past two years is: We are all inadequate. This isn’t a flaw. This is a challenge. This is the opportunity life affords us — to rise up and offer a fragment of greatness,  despite our lacking. To create from a place of authenticity, not perfection. To stand alone with the knowledge that, no matter who surrounds us, we remain cogs in a beautiful machine. To honor our worth. To step away from darkness, no matter how fervent its plea to take us over.

Joni Mitchell sings — “We are star dust. We are golden. And, we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.” So, I walk in my maze of hedges. I meet dead ends, where I collapse in frustration. But, I stand up. I walk again. Because, I know, I am already in the garden. I can see — on the other side of this wall of leaves — something waits for me. Light gets in through the cracks. I know. One of these days, I will turn at the right corner and I will emerge, unguarded. Luminous.

So I stand here. At the second mile marker, on this — my road.

Two years of nothing. Two years of everything. Baba Ram Dass, you brilliant motherfucker, you called it. I begin to understand the many ways we are infinite. I run my fingers over my scars. Old and new. Rough and smooth. My maps.

Behind me, everything is illuminated. Before me, my heart casts out its high-beams on the dark highway.

 

And, to whatever power it is that’s listening, I whisper:

For the light. For the road. For the maps.

Thank you.