Tag: worth it

Fortunes and Freedom

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fireworks

July 4th, 1776 — A few, super-rad, old dudes signed off on our freedom. And so it is — ‘Merica.

This year, I watched fireworks explode as little children waved their sparklers high. My neighbors sat in lawn chairs on the curb. American flags waved off the sides of their craftsman homes as a warm breeze swelled and dusk fell over Portland. Believe it or not, I actually spent this 4th of July thinking about independence. My country’s and my own. It was only a few, short years ago, that this day was nothing more than a good reason to drink.

Today, sobriety is my freedom. I’m not afforded it because of my birth place or my passport. It isn’t a matter of country. However, it is about allegiance — to one’s self. It has everything to do with this ground I stand on. Solid. Sure. Terra firma with integrity. It feels like something worth protecting — worth fighting for. That ground is mine. Not my country’s. Not my parent’s. Not my lover’s. Mine. But, still, I often give it away without thinking.

I once thought freedom was something given. Something we have or don’t have — an object. It isn’t. Freedom is a feeling.

I don’t feel free. Fears punctuate my life. Each day is a short. little. sentence. I am meant to be a run-on, of that, I am certain. The kicker is: Fear isn’t real. It’s something we choose to believe. It’s our own, internal government. We choose this dictator because it makes our choices easy. Life becomes black and white. And, in that simplicity, we mistake inaction for liberation.

I’m guarded. Blocked. My armies wait at the ready to fight, or retreat — I’m still not sure. I’ve had this desperate yearning to move: To move on, to move out, to move my physical body. But, instead, I sit still. Feeling powerless and defeated, I did what any woo-woo, Oregonian, half-blooded-hippie would do: I had my tarot cards read.

I met with my card reader for the first time in a booth at an Indian buffet and we didn’t say much. I told her my birthday. That’s it. She read my cards after I gently touched my palm to each of her two decks. I listened eagerly. I was waiting to be told what to do. Guide me. Show me. Tell me. That’s what I wanted. I traded one dictator for another.

Then — The Eight of Swords. My advice card. My reader pointed to the card and said: “The swords are just fear. The Woman doesn’t see it now– not yet — but, eventually, she will realize she can just walk between them and be free.”

8ofSLarge

Maybe it was the universe’s cosmic pull. Maybe it was the magical woman who hugged me goodbye, warmly, after knowing me only an hour. Maybe it was the cards. Truthfully, I don’t know what it was, but, when I left that restaurant, my clothing spiced with the perfume of India — I didn’t give a fuck about fear.

There is nothing real that stands between us and our freedom. The freedom that exists is the freedom we create. Assign your own limits accordingly.

So, this 4th of July, I declared my own independence. And, as the teenage boys across the street launched their sky rocket above our street, its red plume descending over us like fallen stars, I gripped my flip-flops to the asphalt — my terra firma — and I made a wish.

May we always feel our freedom — and have the courage to dance between our swords.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

Do The Right Thing

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Photo Jul 01, 6 48 13 PM

Good people do the right thing.

I’d tell you that I’m a good person, but, on any given day, my head and my heart disagree on the subject.

What’s good anyway? How does one – be good?

I keep getting into these situations where I allow myself to be carried away. I let outcomes that aren’t mine take me over. I completely lose myself. Meanwhile, I’m telling myself — I can do this. I’m capable. I’m helpful. I’m here, showing up — being present. The thing is though, I’m not present. At all.

Back in reality, I blatantly ignore the things I’ve learned. All these lessons I’ve been scribbling down — discounted and rejected. I ignore my inner compass because I am trying to be a compass for someone else. And then, I head over here to dole out the advice, waxing poetic on so-called self discovery and feeling like a fraud. Yup, I’m still a mess. A Big. Fucking. Mess. But, you wanted the truth, right?

Well, the truth is: I don’t always make good decisions — but — that doesn’t make me a bad person. Yet another lesson for the paltry stack I’ve assembled. My little blog of parables, collecting dust. What would happen if I actually used these lessons that I keep gabbing about? Rubber to the road muthafuckas! What if I actually did myself a service and learned one of these lessons? Because, shit man, this time, I know better. What’s the worst that could happen if I just listened to my gut?

Sometimes, doing the right thing for yourself – sucks. It’s murky. Feelings get hurt. Things will be broken or, worse, lost forever. You’ll wish you could do right by everyone. Oh, but that sinking feeling of failure is all too familiar. Doing right by yourself seems so selfish and doing right by someone else feels so noble. So, duh – we go with the noble option. It’s very romantic. But, let me remind you here — Ignoring your own needs, dismissing your gut, forfeiting your own sanity for the sake of someone else’s feelings is its own form of insanity.

Do the right thing. Be kind to yourself first. Listen to that intuitive voice that tells you when to stay and when to go. Remember the lessons you already learned. Being good — it’s not always easy. And — it’s not always possible. Find your path. Stay there. It’s when you start walking down someone else’s road that you lose your bearings. And, you can’t always find your way back when you’re not the one with the map.

I’ve been here before. I’ve hit my head against this very same wall. So what? Yeah, I ignored my heart a few times — that was yesterday. Today, I’m listening. I’m tuned in. I can step back onto my own path — even though I’m walking it alone.

Don’t talk over yourself for nobility’s sake. Good, bad, or in-between, do good by your heart.

And, dear readers, while I may choke on my words as quickly as I write them, I’m no fraud — You can take my word for it.

After all, I am a good person.

 

Stay saucy,

Sarah

 

Meaning & Memory

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Friday the 13th: I lost my sobriety ring.

FLASHBACK: The night I left my restaurant management job, before going to rehab, my co-workers threw me a party. And, it was one of the best parties ever. I got sloppy drunk, of course, but everyone knew — it was my last-hurrah. I felt so loved that night and I was genuinely hopeful. Amidst all my drinks and all my fun, I was secretly relieved to be so close to freedom.

onering<<<—— Sauced at my goodbye party!

The sous chef pulled me aside and handed me a gift. She was relatively new in the kitchen and I didn’t know her very well, so I was surprised by the gesture. I opened my little package at the bar, whilst sipping my cocktails. It was a thin, wiry, sterling silver ring. Simple. Small. Understated. There was a little note inside too — to the effect of: When you wear this ring, remember why you quit. It seemed so appropriate as I sat there, throwing back drinks, hugging my staff goodbye, letting go of my life as I knew it. Remember why you quit.

I wore the shit out of that ring. My first day sober, I put that thing on my thumb and there it stayed. I turned it around-and-around on my finger nervously in my first days of rehab and at 12-Step meetings. I popped it on and off during awkward moments that you only experience as a newly sober person. And, every time I looked at it, I remembered. I remembered sitting at my restaurant bar, wasted, wanting to be DONE.

When I realized my ring was missing Friday, I figured I’d forgotten to put it back on after my shower. But, it wasn’t in my little, glass, ring dish. Or on the floor. Or on my nightstand. Or by the kitchen sink. Gone.

I had this moment of panic. If my “sobriety” ring is gone…. Am I going to drink now?

A ring — something so inconsequential, however symbolic, had made me question my own ability to stay sober. That’s alcoholism. And, I have enough sobriety, at the moment anyway, to know that the thoughts, where I make it OK, reasonable even, to drink — are just a symptom. A symptom that dresses up the elephant in the room.

My Elephant: I lost something else this week too, not just the ring. It was big. Something I won’t find in-between the couch cushions next time I vacuum. And, sometimes, when I lose big things, I start assigning meaning to smaller things in an attempt to lighten my load. I let my little stuff take over my big stuff. I compartmentalize. I attempt to organize all the meaning. Then, overwhelmed by meaning — I give meaning to meaningless things.

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Losing my ring was just a reminder: Honor your losses. Know, that some things have so much meaning, we’ll never actually make sense of them being gone. There is nothing that can replace this, so, don’t try. Let go, step into the void, stop looking. Just remember. Remember.

Today, I thumb the spot where my ring used to be. I remember what I had, and what it felt like when I had it. I acknowledge that, today, it’s gone.

Life can change as easily as a ring slips off a finger. It doesn’t mean anything. But, looking back, retracing my steps, remembering where I once stood —it means everything.

Stay saucy,

Sarah

Relief.

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image

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

A Series Of Messes

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image

Just walk into it.

Walk into the room and if you have something to say. Say it.

Silence may be all there is in that moment. Let it hang there. Observe it as you would a painting. Let your moment’s museum echo with the footsteps only you can hear.

Take a chance.

Since ditching the bottle, I’ve had my share of messes. Moments where I wished that there was some way to make things simpler, or lighter, anything other than what they were. But, sobriety won’t clean a mess, it will only make it easier to see. So, there they were, as they were, these moments, inevitable and unchanging. Uncomfortable and unbreached.

I learn the same lesson over and over again in sobriety: Life is too wild. Untamable. So, let it buck underneath you, and prepare to be thrown. The hard road is the only road. Take it. Quit fighting it. Surrender to what was never under your control in the first place.

Life is just a series of messes. Revel in them. Without our messes, everything becomes meaningless.

This past weekend: A mess.

I literally walked in circles. I waited for a phone call.  I paged through books, pretending to read. I turned on my music with the illusion I’d hear anything other than my own thoughts.

And then, it came. The messy moment. My arms extended to embrace the thing I still cannot see. Feather or thorn, it’s anyone’s guess.

In the quiet of my own museum, I received my instructions: Take a chance.

On myself. On someone else. On living without fear.

So, I took a risk. The messy kind. Because walking in circles will get you nowhere. Phone calls are only as good as who’s on the other end of the line. Books are only great when there’s a story on every. fucking. page. And, you’ll only dance to music you can hear, so, if your thoughts are too loud — turn up the volume.

 

 

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

 

Define YOUR OWN Sobriety

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Merriam.Webster.

How do you define your sobriety? Merriam-Webster’s definition doesn’t cut it for me.

so·ber adjective \ˈsō-bər\ 
: not drunk
: having or showing a very serious attitude or quality
: plain in color

Pssshhh. I don’t know about y’all, but, my attitude is not serious nor am I plain in color.

I’m fuchsia people. I’m saucy  as hell.

Sobriety, once only considered a consequence, associated with street drunks and alley-way addicts, has new borders. It’s a state of mind that benefits EVERYONE. In this new-world revolution, we’re all striving for great health, emotional and professional balance, and true clarity. There’s nothing plain in color there. In fact, the color spectrum broadens as we start to think more clearly and behave in ways that are congruent with our authentic nature.

Sobriety is as bright as the frame that you put it in.

There’s frame #1: Survival Sobriety.  Quit or die.

Then, there’s frame #2: Choose Sobriety. I mean, think about it, who wouldn’t want to choose sobriety? What does your drink or drug of choice offer you that makes it more appealing than being your pure, unadulterated self? There’s no right or wrong answer here.

If you WANT to be sober, whether you need to be or not, it’s an amazing and worthy option. Embrace it.

What brought you to this page? Are you planning to be sober for life? Are you hopping on the sober train for a month or two to clear out the cobwebs? Have you been sober before and feel like it’s time to get back on the wagon?

No matter what your reasons for being here are: They’re amazing and valid.

Sobriety is about clarity of mind, being present for your life, and being a witness to what’s around you without mind altering substances.

All things being equal: Sobriety = Worth it = You.

What is your sober story? Share it!

Screw Merriam-Webster. Define yourself. We’re listening….

Stay Saucy,

Sarah