tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-112146392024-03-07T19:47:33.848-05:00sobriety girlOne of the biggest fears of beginning any journey is the unknown. We do not know where the journey will take us and that can be quite scary. What will we uncover? What will we find along the way? The journey is as amazing as the final destination. We learn with each step. We learn we have the ability to go in any direction we choose. That direction is very much of our own accord.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.comBlogger166125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-20701982936490728202012-11-22T09:12:00.003-05:002023-03-06T20:40:17.671-05:00The Last Glass <br />
People have requested that I post this again, I wrote this piece published many times over the years..<br />
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I started with twenty-four. Twenty-four Waterford wine glasses. It was weeks before my wedding to the man I so arduously loved. Some were gifts from my family. Many were gifts from our friends. The blue boxes with white ribbon poured in like the wine collection I so astutely built. I took each one out of the box, unwrapping their delicate tissue. The chardonnay glasses with their spindled stems- as if ready to be caressed by the sophisticated hand. Waiting for the candlelight to pour through, reflecting romantic evenings. The cabernet glasses with their wide mouths waiting for a supple reward. I could tilt the glass back to meet the succulence in my lips. Finally, my most cherished eight..the Bordeaux glasses. They were the generals in my army. The glasses were heavier in weight yet far more elegant than the rest. I sat waiting for the right vintage to begin my revolution.<br />
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I whimpered when I broke the first six. Three months after my nuptials to the man I thought I loved. The expensive vintage collection began to dwindle. In its place came the bottles that I found at a local winery. Not a bottle from Georges Duboeuf, but some fine wine. A large soiree, friends mingling around the fire. Forbidden fruit poured endlessly by the gracious host, who was subsequently in the Garden of Eden herself. Words began to unfold and emotions began to erupt. First went the chardonnays. Thrown with such vigilance. Aimed right at my beloveds head. There went two hundred dollars towards the refrigerator door. Tearfully, I swept up the shards of glass. But, alas there were eighteen more. I still had the reds. In my battle, I had lost a troupe but still had soldiers.<br />
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I cried when I broke the next four. In the early light of spring, I reached for a glass. My coordination stifled by my constant imbibing. I poured a bottle of inexpensive cabernet into my tall glass. I no longer took trips to the winery anymore. I had been there far too often; my face was beginning to be recognized by the patrons. I searched for replacements and conjured up my imaginary wineries in Southern France. I could pretend. I could pretend that my wine rack was not empty. I could pretend that I was not alone. I was drinking away the grief that his silence caused. The grace of the Waterford could not still my shaking hands. I dropped them. Four of my best friends dropped in one evening. With such ferocity, I tried to save them. I had my own personal drunken funeral for my glasses. Tossed into the trash compactor.<br />
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I sobbed when he took the next eight. Fall had come. He left with the decanter. The wonderful Waterford decanter. With it etchings so meticulously set in the glass. He lovingly wrapped up the reds and left me with six. He continued the romance, the love affair with elegance and sonnets. Only, my glasses were now empty on the shelf. No life seeped into them. No reflection from candles would burn again. Dust began to choke my thirst. And the flames had been extinguished. Candlelight would no longer pour through the same glass. The wine bottles taken to a new place. To begin a new life. Without me.<br />
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I panicked when I broke the next five. One more left. I no longer looked at the glasses with a fervent eye. I used them for anything that could numb the pain. Vineyards had stopped producing the fruit of my garden. In its place found the weeds of alcohols existence. I could only bring myself to lift the glass if it contained venom. I had begun to despise the glasses for the life that used to be contained in them. Glamour had ceased to exist. The clanging of glasses was not in toast but in concerted effort to forget celebration. If the glass was not full, I panicked. Pouring into the loneliest, endless black hole. But not even the last of the glasses could sustain the ache. I threw them in angst. Threw them into the floor as if I could demolish my past. As if I could break this state of destruction. Angry rants begot sophisticated conversation. The stems became daggers into my own heart. One final glass remained.<br />
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I rejoiced when the last one broke. It stood on the shelf. An icon to my former life. I worshipped the last glass as if it was on a pedestal. Like a far removed screen star. I looked lovingly at the shining reflection every evening. Yet, I hadnt touched it in months. Hadnt caressed its sleek, smooth body. A friend from my old life came. She let it go. It slipped out of her hand. I watched it. I saw its demise. Falling, falling, it shattered into tiny pieces. The stem no longer recognizable. The body marred. Suddenly in one moment, the pieces were gone in the trash. I had scraped them up and thrown them into the past. I looked up. My heart lifted. The war was over. The Waterford was gone. The whites, the reds gone from my life. The wine defeated. Swept up into a pile and discarded into the past. I smiled.<br />
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My glass was empty. My life was full.<br />
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copyright, kjpartstudio 2012<br />
sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-71134454947839871292012-09-19T10:19:00.002-04:002012-09-19T10:19:37.859-04:00Gratuity and HopeYears ago, when I first started doing a lot of my sober work, I would write down five things I was grateful fo every night. This would include moments in the day, people, places, a smell, a sight, it didn't matter, I would keep a notebook next to my bed and take those three minutes to stop and appreciate the things that happened in my day.<br />
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A practice that I had long put aside, I have begun to write down both morning AND night about those things that I am grateful for and those things that I am HOPEFUL for within in the day.<br />
<br />It's another small step for me on the long path that I've embarked on. It's as if another ray of light has come out to remind me of what I was truly missing in my life.<br />
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And I embrace this with humility and gratitude.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-19286415251145053482012-07-09T13:42:00.002-04:002012-07-10T09:53:43.746-04:00Who I amI've looked through every magazine and self help book<br />
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I've looked through every recovery group and blog</div>
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Googled myself a million times; sobriety, sobriety girl, recovery, recovering</div>
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And I still haven't found who I am</div>
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It will never come to me in a search que, website or fourteen question survey to diagnose my addiction</div>
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When I reach into my soul</div>
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Brief times</div>
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Lately, rare times</div>
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I see a glimpse of who I know I can be</div>
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And hold my breathe
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Waiting for the day that I release myself from pain</div>
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The day has come</div>
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I know who I am</div>
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And where I belong.</div>sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-65697160899275586302011-06-27T14:05:00.000-04:002011-06-27T14:05:50.373-04:00Four AgreementsFrom the Four Agreements-<br />
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Everything we do is based on agreements we have made. In these agreements we tell <br />
ourselves who we are, what everyone else is, how to act, what is possible, and <br />
what is impossible. What we have agreed to believe creates what we experience. When these agreements come from fear, blocks and obstacles develop keeping us from realizing our greatest potential.<br />
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Based on ancient Toltec wisdom , the Four Agreements offer a powerful code of conduct that can rapidly transform our lives and our work into a new experience of effectiveness, balance and self supporting behavior.<br />
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BE IMPECCABLE WITH YOUR WORD<br />
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Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.<br />
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DON'T TAKE ANYTHING PERSONALLY<br />
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering.<br />
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DON'T MAKE ASSUMPTIONS<br />
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want.<br />
Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness, and dram With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.<br />
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ALWAYS DO YOUR BEST<br />
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgement, self-abuse, and regret.<br />
<a href="http://www.miguelruiz.com/">Four Agreements</a><br />
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<div align="left"></div>sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-40802142695335448822011-02-20T07:40:00.002-05:002012-04-16T09:51:17.090-04:00Letting Go.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>"She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.<br />
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She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the 'right' reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.<br />
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She didn't ask anyone for advice. She didn't read a book on how to let go... She didn't search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of all of the memories that held her back. She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.<br />
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She didn't promise to let go. She didn't journal about it. She didn't write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn't check the weather report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go.<br />
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She didn't analyze whether she should let go. She didn't call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn't do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment. She didn't call the prayer line. She didn't utter one word. She just let go.<br />
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No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.<br />
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There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.<br />
In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore."<br />
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- Safire Rosesobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-46625650949103707192010-12-13T15:08:00.002-05:002012-04-16T09:55:55.089-04:00Compass.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Every minute, every day, we choose direction. Whether we wake up and decide to move left or right, there is a specific direction that we take. It is all relative to where we want to go. And trying to figure out how to get there is sometimes an incredibly daunting task, particularly when unaided by our own fear of the unknown. <br />
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So many times in my own life, during these times of choice, I sometimes wish that I could whip out a compass and have it magically point me in the direction that would be the most conducive to happiness and well being. When this magical intangible compass has failed to appear (as it should), I have become frustrated with myself for walking in the wrong direction or running like hell right into the middle of total misdirection. <br />
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The reality is that we all have an internal compass (not a magical one). One that, if crafted with time and insight into how we want our lives to be lived, will help us move in the direction we choose. It's about learning to navigate choices. And spending the time to understand the consequences and aspirations that the chosen direction holds. <br />
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Each time I am faced with a new direction and the decisions weigh on me, I think about what is driving my intention. Where will this direction take me? And ultimately, will I be a better person and happier when I've taken steps to move that way.<br />
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And that, my friends, is the shiny direction bearing tool that may not prevent me from making mistakes, but it helps me stop and at least ask where I am going.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-28494240281912269652010-11-10T09:07:00.002-05:002012-04-16T09:56:52.764-04:00Sober Thanksgiving (A repost)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>Here's a scenario. It's your first few months sober and Thanksgiving, being your first holiday, suddenly creeps up on you. Panic. Angst. What do you do? Hide from the family? Ignore the holiday completely?<br />
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As if holidays aren't tricky enough, being sober during these times, when being merry and celebratory is analogous with having a drink in hand, can be daunting. I know, I've had a few (nine and counting still) myself.<br />
One of the most elemental facets of sobriety is to make sure that you are always taking care of yourself, on every level. If you are not going to spend the holidays alone (I'm hardly ever against the idea!), you should have some contingency plans in place for the trip to grandmas.<br />
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The first task I completed in my first year sober during the holidays was to take a sheet of paper with every single e-mail address and phone number of all my support systems (at the time, there were many), quotes I loved, goals I had..etc. I wrote SURVIVING MY HOLIDAY SOBER on the top of it, scribbled incessantly and tucked the paper into my wallet. In all honesty, I never once pulled it out. But, it sure did help knowing that at any time, I could run outside and call someone or read some relevant bit that would ease the anxiety.<br />
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Okay, piece of life support paper in tow...doesn't get you through family ordeals or questions. Simple thing to remember: "Sometimes, the less information given, the better". Does Aunt Sally really care about whether you are drinking a bottle of wine with her? It probably bothers you more than she. Do you need to launch into a sober diatribe? Depends, but I would lean no. You are primarily sober for you, no one else. Your sobriety is an added benefit for those around you.<br />
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It's your choice as to how much information about your life you want to disclose. I've learned in the last seven years that if one of my family members still chooses to believe I was in a big magazine for helping people (when, in reality, the article was about me being a former party girl), then so be it. Not worth the argument.<br />
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Before and after long hours at the table, it may help remember the following thoughts (I've used one or all over the years):<br />
<ul><li> Pets are a good reason to excuse yourself early to go home</li>
<li>Going for a walk with one family member is sometimes easier than answering to twelve and fresh air never hurts</li>
<li>Any kind of clear soda in a glass with some fruit that you get immediately upon arrival will usually put an end to the "what are you drinking" question</li>
<li>Be kind to yourself, don't fall into the roles that we're assigned at birth</li>
<li>Remember that this day falls only once a year</li>
<li>There is no chance you will get pulled over on the way home</li>
<li>You will not be hungover on Friday</li>
<li>Be thankful, really thankful, that you are sober this year</li>
<li>Families usually fight because it's like looking in a bunch mirrors, everyone is related and similar</li>
<li>Watch sugar, it's a great way to become testy</li>
</ul> I have my own rituals, I try to do Thanksgiving with friends so that I can relax. Remember, there are more holidays in the next month! I go for a run. I buy my favorite beverage and put it in a wine glass, just for my own sanity. Have a good holiday<br />
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<div></div>sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-33662908760515491322010-04-02T13:33:00.001-04:002010-04-02T13:33:51.274-04:00The attempted demise of Sobriety Girl<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the last eight years of my sobriety, there have been many times where I have wrangled with the identity of "sobriety girl". I've created this persona to express my life as a sober woman. I've written countless articles under the name. At times, "sobriety girl" seems to be stamped on my head wherever I go. I've even googled "sobriety girl" and realized that my persona has become a brand running rampant on the internet. It has been infinitely satisfying on many levels to know that I've been fortunate to be able to gain insight from others and continue along my own recovery road. I've been writing the book for over a year with an actual audience anticipating it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Many times, particularly in the last two years, I've done just about everything but shut down the blog and kill off "sobriety girl". I struggle with my recovery every day. I struggle many times to write positive and decisive blogposts about where I am in my recovery because I am simply uncomfortable where I am. I look for normalacy in life. Boring. Bored. Quietness. And I begin to take the "sobriety girl" persona and look for ways to eliminate one of the most healthy and inspiring pieces of my life. I feel that living under some alias is far too much of an ego trip. I am just another person trying to survive addiction. And there are times when I don't like what I've created. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The funny thing about thinking about the demise of my self created persona is that I haven't slipped. I have managed to not drink through some of the most trying personal times of my life. I just find it to be self serving to call myself anyone but who I am. I am Kim. I am desperately trying to find the right path to happiness. And in the process, I sometimes write raw and emotionally insights from where I sit. And these come under the name "sobriety girl". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, from here, I am still writing under "sobriety girl" but the persona now matches my real one. And I think, in the end, there may be some normalcy in that. And now, I can get back to writing the book. It's been a long time since I've sat down and wrote out chapters that resonate where I struggle and where I succeed. </span>sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-90918067441535037652010-01-29T12:18:00.010-05:002012-04-16T10:24:20.399-04:00The Wall<div></div><div></div><div></div><div>This morning, a friend wrote this to me:</div><div></div><br />
<div>"...powerful is your default state, you just let the CRAP overtake you, like vines creeping up a wall. You're the wall. The vines are your insecurities..." <a href="http://twitter.com/jackfrombkln"><span style="font-size: 78%;"></span></a></div><br />
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<div>It's been a tumultuous week with several notable minor but annoying meltdowns to enhance the overall drama level. I've shed some tears, fought outright panic and lived with a sense of complete anxiety in the span of about six days. Nothing overly dramatic or out of the ordinary but enough to cause me a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">heightened</span> sense of angst. </div><div></div><br />
<div>It's not the meltdowns, tears or panic that really infuriate me. It's the propensity I have for defensively reverting back to something I used to liken to putting up walls. The reality is, I am the wall. I immediately allow the stress and question to define me. The vines can grow within 24 hours and I am then expending energy to get rid of them instead of learning to keep the walls down. I panic. I forget that I really am defying life's challenges by taking all that is adverse and creating something fabulous. And throughout my life, that's really what I do. </div><div></div><br />
<div>The reality, again, is that I have done tremendous work in my life, on many levels, and to allow myself to return to a state where I am paralyzed by my past is just plain ridiculous. We all deserve to be happy. We deserve to live as fully as possible. We all deserve the ability to rid ourselves of the "crap". </div><br />
<div></div><div>This morning, I vented. Cried like a baby. Rolled over and played dead. I gave my friend every reason why I could not possibly knock down this heavily guarded wall in which I have both allowed myself to hide behind and incorporated into my being. He kept egging on my fight instinct. Pointed out the objective. Wrote out the OBVIOUS. And after much argument, I re-read the words. He was right, I am defiant. I am powerful. And I have moments of complete insecurity. It happens. </div><div></div><br />
<div>We move on, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">persevere</span> through life and hope that we've learned from our mistakes. I made a mistake this week (okay, I've made several as I am just generally like that) by allowing anything to stand in the way of who I am and why I'm here. </div><div></div><br />
<div>And now, I've furiously pulled down the weeds and remembered that my insecurities will never define me, they just annoy me. And life moves on.</div>sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-88305111450327226362010-01-21T13:13:00.003-05:002010-01-21T14:17:08.457-05:00Ambiguity"If I take refuge in ambiguity, I assure you that it's quite conscious."<br />-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kingman</span> Brewster<br /><br />Many years ago, I used to retreat into this deep and very dark hole when I felt insecure or immensely stressed about a situation. If there was a question, I'd hide. If faced with doubt, I'd dig and dig until buried deep within self-involvement. I'd drag myself into a very uncomfortable place because that is where I felt the most at home. No rationalization. Little insight. Just a deep hole that required little from me. Blinders on. Heart closed. Life stopped. When faced with any possibility other than what I considered manageable, the only solution would be to block out any kind of emotional response. Not so good for the soul. And definitely not conducive to communicating or learning about anything emotional.<br /><br />I attribute this to being a very black and white thinker at times. When faced with ambiguity, run like hell, crawl into the hole and shut out any possibility of gray. It was really that simple. To do anything less would mean being open and vulnerable. To allow one moment of stepping OVER the hole would be blasphemy to the self-imposed code I had painfully instilled. Again, this thinking and subsequent Alice in Wonderland like fall down a slippery slope really never <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">yielded</span> any positive results. But boy it was a place I gravitated to consistently for the majority of my life.<br /><br />At this moment, I feel ambiguity. I have been feeling it in some larger sense since we began our lovely economic roller coaster as has the rest of the world. It's unsettling. Scary. Lately, in the wake of changes that have been both amazing and frustrating, the need to run from the unknown has been overwhelming. I feel open. I feel incredibly vulnerable and scared. The gray has been splattered EVERYWHERE. The voice in my heart keeps encouraging me to RUN LIKE HELL AND JUMP into that "safe" place.<br /><br />My choice: Run and crawl back in, digging deeper and deeper into the safety of a place I no longer consider healthy. Or learn to appreciate and accept ambiguity for what it is.<br /><br />First option...not happening at this point in my life, unless I feel like undoing almost a decade of serious work and this would likely lead to a three year bender.<br /><br />Second option. Define ambiguity as it applies to the moment and embrace the hell out of it. Learn to live with it and maintain an open-mind (or as open-minded as one who regularly sees things in black and white terms can be). Look beyond what makes me uncomfortable. Be prepared to fail. Be aware that no proven model has yet to be developed for life, particularly my own. Expect the unexpected and maybe ambiguity will turn into <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">superb</span> clarity. Or perhaps not.<br /><br />I do know one thing, I am no longer comfortable retreating. No longer complacent with running away from the elements in life I fear the most. If I have to live an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ambiguous</span> life, I accept and get that.<br /><br />There's some strange beauty in the unknown. Some prolific grace that I find much more enticing than no growth at all. And for that, I'll gladly give up the big shovel I've been carrying around.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-127793254631787562010-01-10T07:16:00.013-05:002010-01-10T09:07:22.438-05:00HumilitySeveral months ago, someone gave me this sage advice: "You don't need to oversell yourself in life, you just need to practice a little humility".<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Interesting advice for someone whose basic definition of humility had rarely expanded from the thought that humble meant weak.</span><br /><br />This particular advice was referenced to my professional life, but I do believe it carries over into everything personal. As a child, I don't think I would have been able to be humble, as most children are not. I was the youngest of three with divorced parents and subsequently a deceased father. I held close a constant fear that if I did not put myself out there ALL the time (I believe that's the overselling part in the aforementioned advice), I would simply be put back on the shelf to collect large amounts of dust. I garnered attention for being quirky, wild-minded and seriously smart. I acted on impulse in order to capture the largest percentage of an audience. I could command attention, positive or not.<br /><br />As an adult, this process simply evolved rather than abating completely. I drank to become more emboldened. I became the "best" at everything so I could simply say that was so. And in this process, the word "humility" never passed through my transom. One of the reasons I began a career in advertising was likely to learn the true art of selling everything, including myself.<br /><br />The reality is, this bravado that I created actually allowed me to keep the packaging sealed well. And the package, in my own perception, was damaged goods trying to be passed off at full sale. I was trying to sell someone that I hadn't quite become comfortable with and thus the bravado could seem at times contrived. Instead of learning about my surroundings and the people in them, I quickly jumped to the benefit of knowing and loving me. I would assume that I could just use my inherent gift for leadership and intellect to skate through the motions and get to the immediate gratification. I simply listened less and talked more. After I stopped drinking, I think this defense mechanism that I had cultivated for years became much more prominent. Now, I had a soapbox of sorts to actually allow my bravado to scream. I took my sobriety and ran to the top of the hill. I blogged, I lectured, I have been writing a book. I infiltrated this into my everyday life with gusto and rarely stopped to think about the core reasons for my decisions.<br /><br />When I received this advice, I sat for hours. I looked up the definition. I researched humility like crazy. What a concept, I thought. I truly had never thought of adding this definition to my list of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">characteristics</span>. The more I thought about this, the more I realized how much humility was missing from my life. The soapboxes I had carefully crafted suddenly seemed too big and too high. In my quest to sell everything I believed and conjured, I lost something in translation. I had been talking way too much in my life and not listening. The bravado was no longer empowerment but a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hindrance</span> to my ability to really understand who I wanted to be and how I would project that in my life.<br /><br />I sat longer. I again thought about this advice on many levels. I came up with theories. I stopped writing altogether again, because I couldn't project the honesty I needed. I reassessed where I was...again.<br /><br />Fast forward to the last months. This advice comes into my head every single day of my life. Being a media director in advertising, I know that to gain the greatest share of voice, advertising needs to be direct and greatly targeted while paying attention to WHERE and HOW people want to consume this message. Meaning, instead of overselling, it should be done with finesse and grace. And you have to believe in WHAT you are selling.<br /><br />I get it. I get humility. The bravado I walked out of my last job with never entered the new one. The boisterousness in which I have lived the majority of my life has significantly eased. I understand now that I am not damaged by any means, I am a remarkably strong woman as a result of all the events that have transpired. And humility simply embodies this as strength, not weakness.<br /><br />It's finding the balance between the two that is now the objective. Listening, while understanding who I am and what I want in my life. In believing who I am is worth gold and after some digging, you'll find it. Difficult, yes, but absolutely attainable. Believe me, I'm still ready to turn cartwheels at any point in my life, but I now sit back and wait for someone to ask me to. It's such an immense and incredible concept. And probably one of the biggest life lessons that I am learning.<br /><br />And for this gift, I am humbled.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-22472728956557673192009-10-18T14:32:00.003-04:002009-10-18T16:42:34.702-04:00The Seven Year ItchI've hit a crossroad in the last year that likens itself to the seven year itch, as referred in marriage and a Monroe film. It is during this time in a marriage, after seven years, that being unfaithful may become into thought. I can assume (I say mostly assume because my own marriage didn't come close to seven years) that there just comes a time in any committed relationship that you question just about every aspect. And seven years seems like the perfect amount of time. You've gotten to know someone, you know habits and behaviors. Your goals may change and your lives may no longer run parallel. Life just becomes complacent.<br /><br />My seven year itch, in sobriety, has come in full force over the last year. To be unfaithful to my sobriety is tantalizing...sexy and romantic. I picture myself in Bordeaux having a nice glass with a piece of bread and cheese. I feel cold alcohol on a hot summer day. I've become bored with my every day routine of being sober. I fantasize about my torrid affair while sitting there ignoring my sober self. I've started looking for reasons to stray and dip my toes in the other side. Ignore the blog, the work I do, the book...stop thinking...start living in la la land with my aspirations to be inebriated at any given point. The itch has gotten deep.<br /><br />Truth is, that itch is a remarkably dangerous place to scratch. The love affair with alcohol would soon turn bitter. The romance? Gone in hours. Bordeaux? Not happening that way. I would leave my sober self, never able to return again. That moment that I took one drink would erase the last seven and a half years of painstaking work. And I would never be there again.<br /><br />My solution...because I've decided to focus this blog more on the solutions than the problems. Decided to write more about life as it has become instead of what it was. I am present, focused and allowing life to come in.<br /><br />And I've slapped on some anti-itch stuff...my blog, my work, my passion for this life...iI should be good for another seven years.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-42098364092019068592009-08-19T15:56:00.006-04:002009-08-20T08:27:13.900-04:00The Demise.As there are many cycles in our lives, I find one cycle within sobriety that has been resonating over and over again in the last year. Over the last few weeks, I have been dealing with my ever questioning state of sobriety with a scowl and intermittent indifference. The cycle of questions that force me to look at where I am in my life and what I truly need to be happy and content with the decisions I make. Formulate a plan. Let go of the past. Live life with gusto. Be sober. Be happy. And my addicted self, all the while, is hanging on my back like a bad relationship causing great distress.<br /><br />The reality is, I am simply growing extremely tired of not being able to truly let go of all the baggage that came with the person I had been. Tired of writing and talking about letting go when, in fact, it hasn't happen on the level that I am seeking. My resistance to let go and just be who I am causes great frustration. And that, in turn, leads me to quickly blame sobriety and how miserable I may perceive it to be. It's an incredibly vicious cycle and one that, if not rectified, can lead to allowing the addicted self to take over.<br /><br />Not good.<br /><br />Yesterday, I cried for about an hour sitting at the computer unable to write anything about being sober. I just didn't have the desire to write about it. I've been avoiding it altogether because, again like a bad relationship, my addictive self has been screaming at my sober self a lot lately. And the noise is driving me batty.<br /><br />Last night, I decided to just off my addictive self. Dead, killed, it's over. If I don't, I may just sit here arguing with myself for the rest of my life. And that will likely either drive me totally insane or lead to a massive bender that will destroy everything I have desired in my life. So, I'm giving my addictive self a nice funeral today. It's time. The demise has happened. Buried, gone, see you later.<br /><br />Life is too short. Life is way too good (well, the economy and job situation could improve, but hey, it is what it is). Being sober is far too important in my life to allow baggage to weigh me down.<br /><br />Today, it's another new day. Another cycle...and another stepping stone to happiness that is well deserved.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-31087259053037062752009-07-30T06:50:00.001-04:002014-04-10T15:32:25.994-04:00She let go.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.<br />
<br />
She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the 'right' reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.<br />
She didn't ask anyone for advice. She didn't read a book on how to let go... She didn't search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of all of the memories that held her back. She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.<br />
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She didn't promise to let go. She didn't journal about it. She didn't write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn't check the weather report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go.<br />
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She didn't analyze whether she should let go. She didn't call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn't do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment. She didn't call the prayer line. She didn't utter one word. She just let go.<br />
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No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.<br />
There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.<br />
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In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore."<br />
- Ernest Holmes </span>sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-27802725310730375752009-06-30T18:13:00.002-04:002009-06-30T20:18:40.780-04:00The Contentious Relationship.Over the last few months, there has been a complete breakdown of communication. I've been bitter and angry. Spiteful. Hurt. I've almost walked away several times. I've battled, yelled, pleaded and tried total rationalization with little success. It's been up and down to the point that I've become dizzy. I've cried in anger and quickly retreated by begging for forgiveness. Wrote letters, painted pictures and played sappy songs trying to find some neutral ground. Indifference. Love. Indifference revisited.<br /><br />At this point in my life, the aforementioned is my relationship with myself as a sober woman. After eight years, I've suddenly became tired of the battle between my past and present selves. Two different ways of living held together by the thread of sobriety. And let me tell you, that thread is easily frayed when two proverbial alpha egos are furiously pulling from opposite directions.<br /><br />I'm unemployed, back in my hometown (I've mentioned this several times, I know) and immersed in a life that I've been running to and away from for the better part of my life. When I became sober, instead of truly living within my surroundings, I checked out. I literally put a gate up to keep out elements of my past that I didn't want near me. I didn't let go, I just shut everything out. Returning home, all of those elements of my life that I didn't let go were all standing at the gate upon my arrival. Tempting my fate. I thought I was prepared. I believed I wore the big "S" cape. I truly believed I could surround myself with people who are equally addicted and stay in sober thinking. That I could maintain between my desire to be the person in my tulmutuous past (and actually reliving parallels of it) and the person I had become sober. Somehow, in the excitement of barreling through the gate, I completely forgot that I myself am an addict.<br /><br />What's really happened is that I've started testing my boundaries with my own addiction and the behaviours that ensue. I've enabled. I've deprecated my sobriety to the point that I thought I may just lose it. I have allowed my past self to beat the crap out of me on more than one occasion. And I've somehow managed to completely romanticize my past behaviour by choosing to relive it. Not good.<br /><br />The reality is that there is no relationship between drunk and sober. I was drunk and I am now sober. Two proverbial selves do not exist. I've conjured up the relationship as a way to avoid the inevitable. In not letting go, I have found little peace in either sober or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">drunkeness</span>.<br /><br />Over the last days, I've made a decision. I choose sober me. I gave it up. I let it go. I am deciding that simply being sober, in thinking and behaviour, is more important to me than trying to live with someone who doesn't exist.<br /><br />And that means letting go of all of it, not just the easy parts (a great trait of mine...selective release). I've canceled. I've called. I've written off people that I care about because of their own addictions. I've cried profusely. Letting go really really hurts. But, what lies ahead can only be amazing. This much I now know.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-5545771807990257472009-06-21T19:35:00.004-04:002009-06-21T21:20:26.843-04:00Present.I don't know that I have ever truly believed that people could be present within their lives. If one is present, I've thought, where does the past fit in? I have always been one to try and rectify my past by trying to figure it out. To solve the problems that happened so long ago. My methodology would be to rack my brain for months trying to understand what in my past was causing me to make poor decisions. In reality, I was trying to assign blame and dysfunction on anything but myself and these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">decisions</span> that were not grounded in present thinking. And, in an even more stark reality, I've missed a hell of a lot by allowing wasted time in the past.<br /><br />The truth is, I'm learning that it really doesn't matter that much. There is something to be said for having an appreciation for the past, we've been there and done that so kudos to us. It is another thing to ground everything that is happening now and potentially in the future on the premise of a culmination of things that happened in the past. Doesn't make sense. That leaves little room for opportunity in the future because we're blocking movement.<br /><br />And that leads to the sometimes cliche that stresses letting go. I myself have heard many people tell me to let it go and I would loudly protest that by letting go, the very essence of what makes me who I am would cease to exist. That's really good thinking for someone who doesn't want to let anyone in, doesn't want to be open minded and borders of self absorbed. And the essence is more ego than true emotion. There is truly a beauty and grace that comes with allowing yourself to move on. And by moving on, you are really allowing the future to be less subjected to the mistakes and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hindrances</span> in the past. You've gained an appreciation but have truly let go of the crap surrounding the experience.<br /><br />I sit here shaking my head. It's been one of those big "duh" moments. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Light bulb</span> flickering. So, instead of thinking about how I can get that time back (a lot of time), I'm moving on. For all those people who have told me to let go (a lot of people), I don't think you're as crazy as I once thought. I think you may have actually been right.<br /><br />And that's just amazing.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-8037487086936088232009-06-07T19:34:00.002-04:002009-06-08T07:36:04.961-04:00AwarenessOne of the greatest accomplishments in life, in my opinion anyway, is self-awareness. I've blogged about this before in a completely different learning stage of self-awareness. The whole process of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">recognizing</span> self-awareness is truly awe inspiring. It's when truly find this awareness that we are able to recognize what other people need, therefore creating really healthy and evolutionary relationships. It's been a very profound experience, humbling really, to realize that in self-awareness there is humility and an element of selflessness.<br /><br />Imagine that.<br /><br />In the days were I found emotional maturity REALLY challenging, my self-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">awareness</span> levels were <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">meek</span> at best. I had little ability to see what anyone else was feeling or thinking simply because I was so caught up in protecting myself. It had to be about me or my blinders quickly went up. Yet, I didn't know myself at all. I was just too scared to take a real look at myself and how I actually related to and communicated with anyone else. Instead, every single element in my life went through egotistical and oblivion filters. And what came through the other side was indifference and inconsideration of anyone else.<br /><br />It's really amazing how much you learn when you open yourself up to it. I find the more I take self-awareness as a priority in my life, the happier I become. The way I am able to deal with others because of this self-awareness, learning what people need and want in life, also allows for greater happiness and fulfillment.<br /><br />Again, imagine that.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-1149512188948377512009-05-27T14:41:00.003-04:002009-05-27T14:48:12.551-04:00A preview of "The Sober Door" (The book).<span style="font-style: italic;">I am by no means finished, but it's getting there so I wanted to share the preface (again) and first chapter of my fiction piece, "The Sober Door". It's grueling, painful and wonderful all at the same time. Thank you for all your support and would love to hear feedback. (This is also NOT edited yet, so it's simply raw material)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Kim</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Preface</span><br /><br />Locked in. Barricaded from the outside. He spared me. Saved me. Threw me with resounding force. I am conflicted. I am being spared. I am being enveloped in blackness. I can hear him. Screaming outside. Ranting, ranting, ranting.<br /><br />“What do you people want from me. Who gave me this hell?”<br /><br />I know that I am safe for the moment. He is hurting everyone outside the door. I am shut in, shut out from him. They are outside. I am safe. I am spared. The noise of the punches. Each slap stings. Screams. Cries. It rings in my ears. I hear my brother screaming. My mother screaming. I am enveloped in blackness. The vibration of each hit comes through the floor. I cannot see beyond the door in front of me.<br /><br />“I am not the man you want in your life.”<br /><br />I know I want him. I want him to open the door. I want him to bring me out, beat me and take me out of this dark place he has born me to. I want to feel the pain. EACH and EVERY lash that is being inflicted. have been in here for hours, this I know. Cramped and cowering, only wishing that he would love me enough to hit me too. I can smell his breathe, even from inside the tomb I am in. Acid. Fire. Sweetness. His nose, white like Christmas. His eyes wild as he had pushed my thrashing limbs. I was left out of the carnage. .I hear everything but cannot see. I am so desperate not to be forgotten in the massacre.<br /><br />“You are all f***** nuts.”<br /><br />For a moment, I hear his hand on the door knob. I think, “he’s going to bring me out.” I am not scared. I am ready to handle his wrath as it is inherently mine. I tremble. For once, I am not forgotten. I will be his daughter. I will wipe his tears away with my hand. He will know that I want him.<br /><br />Quickly. So quickly. His hand is gone.<br /><br />All goes silent. I hear whimpering. It is my own. I know he is gone. Left me here in the closet. Darkness. I am alone. I don’t know where he is going or how long but he won’t be back. He went too far. He left me.<br /><br />He left me.<br />He forgot to leave my present. He forgot to sing, to blow out the candles. He forgot to tell Mom that I only eat chocolate frosting. He left. He left his only daughter. His baby girl. I only want him to buy me presents. Love me. Adore me. I am alone. He won’t sing my birthday song. Ever. Today is my sixth birthday. I am locked in the closet with the only way out is to my private hell.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You are about the read my version of what happened next</span>. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">chapter one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">By the time my twelfth birthday candles were lit by my own hand, I was a newly coined and initiated </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">fatherless </span><span style="font-style: italic;">alcoholic. This combination would continue to haunt me for the better part of my life. </span><br /><br /><br />I walked into the house, mom and my brother Sam were there. Grandma and Grandpa were there. I walked into the singular moment that I would attribute every flaw and painful recollection. My father was dead.<br /><br />“There’s been an accident?”<br /><br />“An accident?”<br /><br />“Dad is gone.”<br /><br />“Gone?”<br /><br />“Dead.”<br /><br />I remember screaming. I don’t think at the time it was a truly harrowing and blood wrenching scream. I believe I screamed for the pure drama of the moment. I had, since my sixth birthday and likely at birth, a colorful and serious penchant for dramatic flair.<br /><br />I look around the room. My brother hysterically crying. My mother panicked. My grandparents stoic. I collapsed. I picked myself up and ran into the room I had at my mother’s house. I thought about nothing. I was utterly numb. Void of any emotion. I would, over the course of many years, seek out any method I could to bring myself back to that moment of complete and utter disconnection. It was fabulous and instead of grieving my father, I relished in the emptiness I felt.<br /><br />My delicate ego took over. This was an opportunity for attention. I, in my childhood, had been largely and grossly neglected by anyone within intimate range. Seeking out my own spotlight, I returned to the stage.<br /><br />“How did he die?” “What happened?”<br /><br />My father, in his stupidity had killed himself with his vehicle. He was not drunk this time. Not high or strung out. He was simply going from one place to the next in his transient life. A simple car accident killed him without incident. He drove off a mountain in the middle of the night, died instantly and with little fanfare. In his death, he was alone. Left to die on the side of a mountain.<br /><br />In my bed I slept during his demise, dreaming of what I would be able to manipulate him with next and not knowing that I would never be able to control him again.<br /><br />My brother Sam sat crumpled over in the kitchen chair. He was devastated at the loss of his best friend. Sam, who was seven years older than I, knew my father in a completely different way. His relationship had history. My father was present in his childhood, a force unlike any other. In my own, he was flippant and obtuse. My brother, then a nurturing soul, would manifest his grief of losing my father much much differently than myself. Sam was truly crushed by his loss. As so many times I would recall, I became enraged at his ability to feel the pain of loss for what it was.<br /><br />I turned to Sam,<br /><br />“I need to go for a walk.”<br /><br />At twelve, I was so apt at stirring up dramatic moments and then quickly disappearing from my self induced spotlight. I would be running so fast, I rarely looked back at the pieces I was leaving behind. I walked away from my family. I ran into the street and walked for hours. I only recall thinking about what my friends would say or how embarrassed I was that my father was, once again,causing spectacle in my life. I blamed him. I blamed myself. I cursed everyone I knew in my short life.<br /><br />I sat down and thought only one thing.<br /><br />How could he leave me again?<br /><br />With that thought, on that night, I picked up my first bottle of alcohol.<br /><br />Three days later, we had a funeral. I don’t particularly remember the three days preceding actual burial. I was drunk. So drunk, I still have very little recollection of those hours save one conversation.<br /><br />“Gus, are you drinking?” Gus was my given name. I was a girl with a boy name and a boy haircut.<br /><br />“What mother?”<br /><br />“Are you drinking?”<br /><br />I was, as luck would have, drinking all of her cognac that was kept in the house for the occasional guest. Grief was masked by the astonishment I felt at the fluidity in which I poured myself my seventh glass of alcohol ever.<br /><br />“Drinking what?” I laughed in my euphorically giddy state of new found inebriation.<br /><br />My mother stared at me. She was too deep in the midst of her own crisis to realize the road I was about to run down.<br /><br />“Don’t be smart”<br /><br />She turned around, heading towards the door.<br /><br />I was so intoxicated by intoxication, by my sheer ability to numb myself within minutes, I laughed hysterically.<br /><br />“I am smart”<br />She shook her head and left.<br /><br />From that moment, I knew life would be a lot easier drunk.<br /><br />At the burial, where the hundreds of friends my father had all attended with heavy hearts, I carried that exact cognac with me in a thermos to lighten my own heart. I reached for it, twisting the cap with every insincere and made-up eulogy that was given. I ran to the car to alleviate the angst of seeing the many girlfriends that I had lived with his custodial time and during his marriage to my mother. Here, I could replenish the numbness I strove for. In my stupor, I shunned the people who really could give a rat’s ass about me OR my family. I watched people. I took note of who said what and how they remembered him. I was subconsciously creating a list of people that would I would love to hate over the next fifteen years.<br /><br />I was twelve years old and drunk at my father’s funeral. In the wake of his death, I had never felt so alive. I could be present and escape interchangeably. Without shining the spotlight on myself, I was unnoticed. I blended with the masses of faces that I chose neither to recognize nor acknowledge.<br /><br />At the funeral, I never shed a single tear. But confusion overwhelmed me on so many levels.<br /><br />I was torn between being a fatherless child and an angry daughter. In the ensuing months, I had started to realize that missing my father was advantageous to gain control. I could miss him and excuse myself from being responsible. His death became my mantra for inability to deal with life. I felt overwhelming guilt and grief wrought with anger and abandonment. I was pissed and happy. I cried in the middle of the night. I found every picture of my father I could and poured over the detail in his face. Wore his clothes trying to smell him. Cursed him. Cursed myself. It was a state like I will never know again. I was so young and so old in one breathe. Because through all of this, I was stealing cocktails at my neighbors. Learning the intricacies of highballs and martinis through my keen observance.<br /><br />With all my father’s affairs to be put in order months after the funeral, my mother walked around in a haze of denial and indifference. She was long past living and breathing my father. Her decisions reflected not her children, but her need to release herself of him. Where would Sam and I live? Not with her. Who would sell the house he lived in? She did, very quickly. Every decision that was made allowed my mother to distance herself from the pain she had endured. Her only real mistake, in the process of her own grieving, was that she let go of her dead spouse's children by pure accident.<br /><br />In this neglect, during the first months, I was finding my own dependence being shifted from any parental figure to one that closely resembled a bottle of Vodka.<br /><br />I recall this moment:<br /><br />“Gus, I need to move the pictures of your father.”<br /><br />“Mother, where do you want me to put them”<br /><br />“Not in here, not in your room. I don’t want to see anything on the walls or the dressers. Put them in your closet. You can look at them in there.”<br /><br />“The closet?”<br /><br />“The closet.”sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-89950385046734674172009-05-20T19:11:00.004-04:002009-05-21T09:58:39.073-04:00Expectations." . . . Take another glass of wine, and excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to be so strictly conscientious in emptying one's glass, as to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on one's nose."<br />-Charles Dickens,<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Great Expectations"</span><br /><br />In the wake of my recovery and likely my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">perciptious</span> road to it, I have become painfully aware of the expectations I set for myself on many levels. I wish to succeed professionally (okay, lost the actual professional job, but I'm still writing a book), attain true honesty within my heart and soul and live my life with happiness. The standards may be lofty as I truly believe something great is on the brink of emulating from the growth and awareness I am gaining. I just wish, in my lack of ability for self <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">effacingness</span>, that I figure out what the hell this brink is and how to get there. It confuses me. I find that the closer I come to realizing this maturity and ability to achieve all levels of the success I strive for, the harder I try to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">sabotage</span> it.<br /><br />I am more comfortable with self deprecation than I am with self adaptation. Yet, there is a part of me that understands that this is a process we all go through (some of us actually go through this during childhood and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">adolescence</span>...think I skipped that class) and that when we let go of the fear, life becomes possible. I have been neither ready or willing to let go of fear without paying my own price. Immediately, I will bring myself back into a space that doesn't allow for movement. Trapped within my own fear. And this fear is what I am looking to use as my weapon in battling the life I deserve and want with great passion. I'm out here swinging and in my dolorous armor, I'm slow on the life uptake. Sometimes I think I should just hit myself and get over it. And I think that more and more everyday (something must be working).<br /><br />So, do I compromise and lower the expectations I have set for myself and my "lofty" ambitions? I don't think so. Do I get a life and start doing what I'm meant to do? I think so....wait, I know so.<br /><br />The more we do to truly be who we want and what we want, the more "greatness" emulates. And that, to me, is a pretty attainable goal.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-48638804143054787342009-05-11T06:17:00.004-04:002009-05-11T08:53:30.702-04:00Rescripting the past.In the last two weeks, I've found myself in an interesting situation and time in my sobriety. While I have been sober for almost eight years, I always feel like I've been missing something. There are times when I think that I miss the excitement of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">irresponsibility</span> and the extreme life highs that can come as a result of being a raging alcoholic. The spontaneous and unstable free fall that comes with caring about few consequences and living with reckless abandon. The drama. The sheer intensity in which an addict lives.<br /><br />So, here I've been, unemployed, living back full-time in a town that I've long since left mentally. We live in a community of intense <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">eclecticism</span>. Mountains, rocks, sky. A small town of people addicted to one thing or another, depending on which way the wind blows. And, by my own choice for several reasons, many of the people and situations that I had long forgotten made a guest appearance back in my life.<br /><br />And there are several reasons for this. I have been intrigued to dip my toes back into my life as an addict. Not drinking, of course, but living vicariously through others who are spiralling down to rock bottom. I've watched myself slip back into a very comfortable place, one where <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">responsibility</span> and emotional growth comes to a screeching halt and the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">unfulfilled</span> desire for excitement comes flooding in. It's been, in the last two weeks, both <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">exhilarating</span> and frustrating to say the least.<br /><br />In essence, I have lived the last two weeks many many times in my former life. The people and circumstances haven't changed at all. And because of this, I have been remarkably tempted to try to re-script events and feelings that have been dormant for years. While I am dipping my toes in this life, I am still very much aware of my surroundings. The drama, while incredibly enticing, is not without hard falls after the peaks. And for what? To try and rectify what I couldn't fix in the first place. Other people's actions. My inability to exist in that life. It doesn't work for me anymore.<br /><br />So, now, the drama has ended. I never came close to jumping into the pool, but I was reminded that no matter, I won't be able to swim in those waters again. Never could and never will. Re-writing the past is not an option. Living in the present and being fully present in life is the most rewarding and healthy option for someone who almost lost life so many times.<br /><br />And, I'm sitting here watching the door close on another chapter. While I am sad, I never doubted the outcome from the beginning. I went through the last two weeks absolutely aware of what would happen. I remain slightly bruised from not being able to rewrite my own history and help stop someone at terminal velocity downward, but so so very happy that I do not have to. Everyone writes their own story.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-73465882110080672652009-05-08T19:36:00.001-04:002009-05-08T19:36:48.464-04:00Writing the bookI apologize, I am in heavy book writing mode. Be back in a day or so.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-13226896913645406032009-05-07T08:50:00.001-04:002023-03-06T20:28:41.216-05:00A testament of sobrietyThere have been many years that I have spent trying to put part of my past to bed. In fact, over the last eight years I have gone to great lengths to avoid<br />sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-89652255779137320562009-04-30T08:10:00.005-04:002012-04-16T10:58:41.538-04:00The porch.Just about ten years ago, I used to sit on my front porch while in the throes of my final days of being consistently inebriated, waiting. I was waiting for the inevitable to happen; my marriage was failing, job was left and emotionally I was numb. I would sit and wait for my ex husband to show up (it was sometimes days) and count cars for hours. It was quite possibly one of the most miserable periods of my life. I had made bad choices. I was lamenting over and over the five years I spent spiraling down faster and faster. I was so far removed from being healthy because I was in so much pain.<br />
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I remember the pain from this time, it's been creeping up on me over the last week for a variety of reasons. I can still feel the angst of being emotionally comatose because I was simply so lost within my miserable life. I blamed everyone. I wished for a life that I didn't really want in the first place. I took anything and everything personally. I spent time in a marriage that never should have happened. Love eluded me. Life confused the hell out of me. And to boot, I was always in a state of drunken self medication.<br />
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And I would just sit and watch my life go by, wondering when something would happen to change it. Ha, good luck, I think now.<br />
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Fast forward to yesterday, I sat on the porch last night watching the sunset. I felt a resurgence of this waiting as variables have come into play that remind me of my old life so many years ago. The thoughts of years ago have been forefront and I am amazed at how aware I've become at recognizing them. This time, I was on the porch reminding myself of where I am in my life. Where I've come from. No longer am I waiting for my life to pass by but rather letting those things that are no longer conducive to good health simply pass by my transom. It's refreshing to know this.<br />
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And it's amazing to know that my life isn't passing by at all.sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-80325882691325434782009-04-19T18:57:00.002-04:002009-04-19T19:29:48.656-04:00HappinessI used to think that happiness eluded me. I was not able to find the things that were able to make me feel fully content and at peace. I blamed all the circumstances and mishaps of my life as reason for not being truly happy. This elusiveness caused me great conflict and question; "why was happiness not coming my way"? Not good for one's emotional growth.<br /><br />The fact of the matter is, as I am coming to find out, is that I am really the one who is eluding happiness, not the other way around. Instead of surrounding myself with happiness, I have been running. Running, hiding and fearing the consequences of giving up a great wall of self deprecation and utter sadness. It's been a comfort both before and after my sober life. I've run fast and hard from those paths that would lead to joy and solace. I've locked the gates and completely shut down in fear of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">rescinding</span> the miserable barriers I've created.<br /><br />And so, what to do...what to do...is what I think. Focus of what makes you happy. Strive boldly instead of retreating. Love yourself and find peace from within. So many smart people in my life have quoted the aforementioned. "So much easier said than done", I've retorted.<br /><br />Today, I'm saying "so much easier done than holding all the crap in".sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11214639.post-58589590400775370102009-04-19T18:30:00.000-04:002023-03-06T20:28:42.091-05:00Happiness<br />sobriety girl ©http://www.blogger.com/profile/03418748118856208871noreply@blogger.com0