The 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.

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.

Not good.

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.

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.

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.

Today, it's another new day. Another cycle...and another stepping stone to happiness that is well deserved.

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.

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.

Emotional Baggage

Over the last few weeks, I have begun to see the amount of emotional angst that I carry for what it is.

Serious Baggage.

As someone who turned to self medicating at age 12, these unresolved feelings and memories have stayed with me with remarkable clarity over the last 22 years. I feel like I am an emotional pack rat at times as my head is constantly filled with unresolved issues or emotions that I would do anything to carry with me instead of allowing myself to let go. And these conflicting emotions have always been a source of comfort for me. Each time happiness would creep into my life, I've been able to dissipate the joy I may have felt with feelings of inadequacy or self deprecation.

And suddenly, I am tired of it. The boyfriend I dumped in high school who probably was the most stable person I've ever met. The ex husband who lurks around trying to amend a marriage long over. The death of my father. The pain and anguish I caused all the years I was an emotional mess. I swear, I can recall conversations, feelings and even the smells associated with these instances that I very often feel trapped.

But the comfort in these vivid recollections is waning. I have found over the last six years that I have to lose the baggage to be able to start living in reality, because living in the past with all these loose ends isn't conducive to happiness. It's limiting. It's non-essential. And it's just emotional baggage that I need desperately to lighten.

So, today I start my quest in letting go issue by issue. I'm making a list of all the events and unresolved feelings that have accumulated over two decades. I can imagine it will take me a long time and that this list will never end. I'm okay with that. And after I make the list, I'm going to mark down those issues or feelings that are worth resolving or if I just need to acknowledge them, forgive and let go.

I'm starting with a big one. A long overdue letter. I'm sad and it is going to be a painful letter to write. But, life changes and we are the only ones who can dictate where we go...or if we stay in one place, emotionally.

We clean our houses every season to allow for a new perspective. This time, I'm cleaning out the crap so that I am able to allow new experiences and emotions to come in.

And I have great faith that this will work.

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.