Sober Thanksgiving (A repost)

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?

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

Before and after long hours at the table, it may help remember the following thoughts (I've used one or all over the years):

•  Pets are a good reason to excuse yourself early to go home
• Going for a walk with one family member is sometimes easier than answering to twelve and fresh air never hurts
• 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
• Be kind to yourself, don't fall into the roles that we're assigned at birth
• Remember that this day falls only once a year
• There is no chance you will get pulled over on the way home
• You will not be hungover on Friday
• Be thankful, really thankful, that you are sober this year
• Families usually fight because it's like looking in a bunch mirrors, everyone is related and similar
• Watch sugar, it's a great way to become testy

 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

The Seven Year Itch

I'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Everyone has a story....

I was born with a sixth finger, a pinkie that was removed about 24 hours after I was alive. Not a big deal by medical standards, but by being born with an extra digit, I came out strange and screaming with a story from the get go.

Many decades later, I still have a story and I'm still slightly different (I don't think it has anything to do with the removed appendage) but the difference is that now I have a voice to tell the tales I live.

This week, I celebrate my seventh year of sobriety and again, I look back on my "story" to gain insight and perspective on my own life and how it relates to the overall ways of the world.

My story leading to recovery is universal. I drank, I walked down a tumultuous path in life and I hit my own proverbial bottom. Nothing hugely earth shattering, but I was starting to run down the path of serious self destruction instead of walking and I got smart, I stopped for a moment to look at where I was headed. I changed direction and used everything in my power and resource bank to ensure that the direction I was heading would lead me to the most advantageous place in life.

Seven years later, my story is now grounded in recovery instead of addiction. I have been able to take the voice I was born with (again, reference the "came out screaming") and use it both to help others and learn from the world around me. I am not an expert in recovery, but rather, an individual who has decided to share my life with anyone willing to change their own direction.

After seven years, the struggle to be sober remains as critical as ever. I fight my urges and insecurities on a daily basis. I strive to collectively take everything I am learning and win the battle against my detrimental addiction that almost cost me my life on many occasions. In today's economic meltdown, I struggle with how to make sense of what's going on and am trying to do so with those things I have learned in my recovery; Patience, acceptance and faith.

All things considered, patience consists of taking each day as it is. I can not control all the elements around me, but I can remember to be patient with myself, my job, the economy, etc. Every day has become just that, every day. I live in the moment more than ever, I try very very hard not to consume myself with the future because I just don't know what's going to happen. And I accept this inability to predict the future. I accept the things that I cannot control. But, take responsibility and pride in those things that I can.

This is where faith comes in. I have faith that no matter what, I will remain sober. I may end up in a different place on many fronts, but I will always see my sobriety as a constant source of faith that, when things were at the lowest point in my own life, I pulled myself up and recovered. And, universally, we will do the same when the time is right. The principals of recovery can be carried over into so many more elements of life than just addiction. It means having faith in oneself, having faith in the ability to persevere and believing that what one is doing is honest and true.

So, seven years later I no longer find myself focusing so much on how I got here. That was the easy part. I do focus on why I have chosen to live my life sober, reasons that are far more fulfilling than why I chose to live my life drunk. I have chosen to live each day as a gift. I am alive, I am able to interact with thousands of people who are living a similar life and I have been given a gift to be able to speak freely and candidly about my journey.

Thank you all very much for being here. You've made the journey very real and true.

Playing Cards.

I was thinking the other day about what it is in life that I can and cannot control and I found great similitudes between this notion and playing a game of cards.

In life, we will rarely ever be able to control certain elements that make up our daily existence; where we came from, our overall genetic make-up, etc. These elements are similar, when looking at life through a proverbial card game, to being dealt the hand at the beginning of the game. We don't know what the cards are, but we know that there is an overall algorithm and count to the hand being dealt. Great, little control over this.

We do, however, how extraordinary control over how we play the hand. Sometimes, in sobriety and in life, the cards are inevitably stacked against us. The dealer has the advantage (I can liken this to some larger, non-seen entity) and we are forced to look at the very hand in front of us. The winning and losing is less important as the fact that we have say in the way our lives are led. We choose to take risks or not. We choose to fold the hand or persevere until all options are exhausted.

I've never been a gambler (I still don't know how I missed that addiction), but I do know that we can't blame the dealer, the deal or the cards in front of us. We need to recognize that it's our game to play. Our life to live. And our choice to make the decisions that will lead us to most optimal playing experience.

State of Sobriety

Over the last few weeks, with all the turmoil happening in almost every aspect of daily life, I have begun to ask myself a lot of the questions. What will my retirement look like? Will I continue to have a job next year? Will this end? How much will oil cost to heat the house this winter? It's been daunting to everyone in the global community.

It seems like we are constantly faced with adversity inside and outside the home. And it's been monumentally stressful to think about all of these questions over and over, every minute of the day, while still maintaining some kind of quality of life.

There was a time I would have added sobriety and all its question to the same list. I would have looked at it as a hindrance, another stressful event to ponder over while reading the tumultuous news reports each day. I may have even considered taking all the stress I feel about life in general and justified drinking at this point. And, for some reason, I have found that in all of this inconsistency going on, sobriety is an enormous source of stability in my life.

Think about sobriety as a financial investment. The return on investments, both short term and long term, are extremely high. I invest in my own sanity, solace and well being and I am able to amply produce more. My overhead is extremely low because I no longer require an extra hundred or so dollars a week to sustain my business of getting really inebriated. The insurance may be high, but I can almost guarantee that I will not default so long as I maintain minimum payments. I am continually reassessing my equities within sobriety and there is always positive movement. I don't think there are many other avenues today that guarantee all of these things.

And, in life, if I lost my job, money, house, heat, etc. I would still have the ability to say I am sober. To me, particularly in this state of being, sobriety ranks high on my list of assets that I am proud to continually invest in.

The Night of The Gun by David Carr

It had been a very long time since I thought about reading a book on addiction when I received an e-mail about reviewing The Night of the Gun, a story by NY Times writer David Carr.

So, I sat. I stared at the book for a week not knowing if I was ready to dive into someone elses personal account of addiction for fear of rehashing my own. I only knew David Carr from reading his work in The New Yorker. My knowledge was limited. Still, I did not Google him. Did not read any other reviews. I knew this book would impact a part of my life, a part that I wasn't sure I wanted to think about. And that itself scared me from picking it up. Finally, a quiet weekend on the farm came along and I began reading. Twenty hours later, after little sleep, feeble dog walks and minimal sustenance, I finished quite possibly one of the best addiction memoirs I have every read.

The premise of the book is based on David Carr's experience as a journalist intertwined with his life as an addict. He has gone back to "fact check" his former life, whether from lapsed memory or the need we have in recovery to make sense of our past experiences. The result of his fact checking leads to the telling of a man who is able to do something most of us in recovery would both love and loathe; he is confronting who he was and how he came to many different points in his life. He is connecting a murky past with his more clarified present. And in doing so, he recounts life as an addict and the lives his addictions affected with detailed honesty.

Carr writes:

Even if I had amazing recall, and I don't, recollection is often just self-fashioning. Some of it is reflexive, designed to bury truths that cannot be swallowed, but other "memories" are just redemption myths writ small. Personal narrative is not simply opening up a vein and letting the blood flow toward anyone willing to stare. The historical self is created to keep dissonance at bay and render the subject palatable in the present.

This is a primary factor in life as a recovering addict, where we look at the truths of our lives as we are able to handle them. When we suddenly realize our story is less a narrative than a complex and deeply rooted journey of self perception. Carr captures this in every chapter. The almost third party distance he keeps in the tonality of the book captures the way an addict lives their life, slightly disconnected. Yet, there is realness to the pain and suffering that after I was done reading, the emotions ran hard and deep.

I will not recap the elements or other characters within the book. They are all pivotal and well developed. But, to review them does not give justice. It unfolds with great synchronicity and the book itself is the invitation. For those in recovery, like myself, I could see my own behaviors. I could vicariously go through my own fact checking to assign some semblance to the tornado of drama that preceded the calm.

The Night of the Gun is a serious read. For those in recovery, thinking about it, out of it, around it or not in it at all. It's real. It's honest. And, while the ending is happier but not fluff, you know that Carr's life will continue to be immersed in the struggles of a recovering addict. And he conveys his thoughts, his intentions and his actions with brutal honesty, or dishonesty that comes with being who we are.

I am not an enthusiastic or adept liar. Even so, can I tell you a true story about the worst day of my life? No. To begin with, it was far from the worst day of my life. And those who were there swear it did not happen the way I recall, on that day and on many others. And if I can't tell a true story about one of the worst days of my life, what about the rest of those days, that life, this story?

This book takes the lies that we all tell in our own lives as addicts. The writing allows us a glimpse of what would happen if we could go back to every person in our past and ask them for the truth. And Carr conveys both the lies and the truth in such a way that, when finished reading, I actually forgave myself for all the people I had hurt. And that is one of the biggest accomplishments we can notch into the great big recovery belt strapped around our waists.

For more information, click on the book above, or go to http://www.simonsays.com/content/book.cfm?tab=1&pid=625091

David Carr's NY Times Magazine article, "Me and My Girls": http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/20/magazine/20Carr-t.html

The gift of letting go.

I went out on my porch this evening, it's been a long few weeks and I decided to sit out in the dark air. I've felt a great deal of ambivalence lately. Almost as if I have been waiting for something to happen, movement of sorts. I feel like life has been in a holding pattern, that some things needed to be sorted out.

I turned on the light, and sitting on the stone was a package. It was my birthday a few weeks ago, a time of end of summer celebration, and life has been quiet since then. But, now, in my solitude, was a gift within the brown box, bringing a sense of my own private celebration.

I recognized the envelope. My father's love before he passed away. A woman I admired deeply and have reconnected with after twenty two years. I knew the handwriting, I stared at it over and over. The same handwriting I had seen so many years ago. Notes I had seen her write, loving my father, me so intensely. Handwriting that was slightly flawed, like us. I ran my fingers, tracing the past. And, at that point I knew this gift was much much larger than a 6 x9 container.

My father believed, in some culmination of religious and/or philosophical beliefs, that he was going to be a hawk when he died. I have heard more versions of why, how and when he wanted to be a hawk post-life than I am able to count, including my own biased version. More important was this belief when he was alive. He was adamant about his passage. He wore a gold hawk around his neck. It symbolized his very passion for life and where his place was after. I have pictures. I have vivid memories of this very embodiment of him.

And when I opened the envelope, I knew what was in there. My hand instinctively reached in and fumbled for it. A card came, but I didn't need to open it at all. I knew that wrapped neatly inside white tissue was the sign I've been waiting for. The gift I had been hoping for the better portion of my life.

So, there I sat. Totally unprepared for what came next. I cried. Sitting on my farm with my unwrapped past in my hand. I bawled. Tears pouring down, as they do right now. Total and utter watershed. I missed my life as a child, my father, his loved one, my family. The time before I lost him. The time before we all lost him.

That's just it. We had all lost him. And here, I had suddenly found a piece of him in my hand. And that piece was given to me. She was letting go. And in that, she has given back a piece of me. A piece of my father. The very piece I had been waiting for. Her relationship with her past moves on. My life moves on. I have been giving the most amazing gift. She let go and knew that I needed this piece, this remembrance of passion and love and time where life was strong and good. And I knew it would come. I've waited. And around my neck was the missing piece to my past.

I cannot tell you the love that I feel in my heart right now. Overwhelming and beautiful. Sad and truly awe-inspiring at the same time. I swear, the wind kicked up as I sat there. I cried, but I smiled at the same time. I knew that this day would come. And I thank you so much for giving me the gift of letting go.

Lost My Way

The other day I was writing an e-mail to a friend of mine that has been long removed from my life, a friend that I went to high school with. In the e-mail I wrote, I said: "You know, somewhere between then and now, I lost my way". And that phrase has been stuck in my head ever since.

And it's true. Somewhere between the time I was young and a few years ago, I really did lose my way. I liken it to walking down this long long road that we call life. Throughout my journey, I've had this backpack attached to me with the weight of myself, my emotions, my grief. There have been times when I have stopped along the way and joined others, I married young and tried my hardest to live the picket fence dream with my backpack filling with my junk each step. I walked down big roads; divorce, sobriety, death. I walked along empty barren streets, peering into windows of others lives I wanted so desperately to live in, my backpack aching from the weight. It was like window shopping, seeing all the different lives I could be living. I just kept walking until I really just got lost.

Many times, I asked directions from those who didn't know the way either or others who tried to point me in the right direction but I just didn't know HOW to ask. I faltered from the weight of my own demons. A lot of stumbling, I was desperately looking for a way home or a diversion to just let the backpack fall for awhile. There were some lonely travels along dark paths. I was unclear. Heavy, unfocused.

And while I lost my way, I didn't stop. Every time I fell, I got up. I learned about the journey. I started looking to lighten my load of baggage to help move my life along. I paused briefly and began to examine those things. Trial and error, seeing what matter and what didn't. I dug deep until I finally pulled out the one thing I needed, a shiny compass buried at the bottom of my bulging sack of useless crap.

Today, I'm navigating. Perhaps I will always be a bit of a wanderer. A bit confused, but on my own road, with direction and purpose. I got lost, changed the way I traveled and now I am finding my way back. Walking through life with the shiny compass that I found in my soul. Stopping along the way to remember why I am walking along, the adventure, the love of traveling through. I am not lost, I'm on my way.

So, my next ponderance, my next life question will be, "Where the hell am I going?"

Let go.

Today I am just letting go for the next few hours. That's it. I'm not going to write about it, I'm just going to do it.

A gift for today.

Glamour Magazine article, 2004

Many requests to post the article that ran in Glamour. Please e-mail me if you would like to view a copy.

The Last Glass.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My glass was empty. My life was full.