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.

She let go.

"She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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."
- Ernest Holmes

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 drunkeness.

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.

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.

Present.

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 decisions 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.

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.

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 hindrances in the past. You've gained an appreciation but have truly let go of the crap surrounding the experience.

I sit here shaking my head. It's been one of those big "duh" moments. Light bulb 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.

And that's just amazing.

Awareness

One 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 recognizing 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.

Imagine that.

In the days were I found emotional maturity REALLY challenging, my self-awareness levels were meek 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.

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.

Again, imagine that.

A preview of "The Sober Door" (The book).

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)

Kim

Preface

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.

“What do you people want from me. Who gave me this hell?”

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.

“I am not the man you want in your life.”

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.

“You are all f***** nuts.”

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.

Quickly. So quickly. His hand is gone.

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.

He left me.
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.


You are about the read my version of what happened next. 



chapter one.

By the time my twelfth birthday candles were lit by my own hand, I was a newly coined and initiated fatherless alcoholic. This combination would continue to haunt me for the better part of my life.


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.

“There’s been an accident?”

“An accident?”

“Dad is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.”

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.

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.

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.

“How did he die?” “What happened?”

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.

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.

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.

I turned to Sam,

“I need to go for a walk.”

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.

I sat down and thought only one thing.

How could he leave me again?

With that thought, on that night, I picked up my first bottle of alcohol.

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.

“Gus, are you drinking?” Gus was my given name. I was a girl with a boy name and a boy haircut.

“What mother?”

“Are you drinking?”

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.

“Drinking what?” I laughed in my euphorically giddy state of new found inebriation.

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.

“Don’t be smart”

She turned around, heading towards the door.

I was so intoxicated by intoxication, by my sheer ability to numb myself within minutes, I laughed hysterically.

“I am smart”
She shook her head and left.

From that moment, I knew life would be a lot easier drunk.

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.

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.

At the funeral, I never shed a single tear. But confusion overwhelmed me on so many levels.

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.

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.

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.

I recall this moment:

“Gus, I need to move the pictures of your father.”

“Mother, where do you want me to put them”

“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.”

“The closet?”

“The closet.”

Expectations.

" . . . 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."
-Charles Dickens, "Great Expectations"

In the wake of my recovery and likely my perciptious 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 effacingness, 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 sabotage it.

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 adolescence...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).

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.

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.