Author: Brittany

When You Finally See That Everything Is Not Fine

i6vmsv
Generational addiction is complex and ugly.

While it isn’t a hopeless thing to come back from, it is impossible to mend relationships if no one is willing to take a look at the truth, especially if you are talking about unraveling years and years of effects of trauma, abuse, codependency, enabling, addiction, and mismanaged mental-illness.

So not every family trying to interact with each other after dealing with addiction and its ramifications make it. We don’t all kiss and make up. We don’t all attend group counseling sessions or family rehab visits or collaborative therapy or accept apologies or offer or accept forgiveness.

It’s a hot fucking mess express, and everyone knows it.
And sometimes, it just stays messy and no one wants to touch it.

There are no unicorns, no rainbows, no positive quotes. No hugs or family selfies.
There is disconnection, and minimizing, rationalizing, denying, justifying, and distorting. It’s frustrating.

And I totally get it. 
I know how good it feels to push away the raw, real, shame-ridden truth for as long as you possibly can, and those defense mechanisms are helpful truth shunning aids.

They trick your mind and your heart into feeling like things aren’t as bad as they actually are; into believing that ‘everything is fine’ when in fact, all of the things are anything but fine.
And they do great work. 
You can use them for as long as life will allow, or, as long as your own truth will allow. Defense mechanisms are most definitely one of those things that work until they can’t anymore.

But there is no grey area to linger comfortably in.
They either work or they don’t.

So sometimes when you commit to living authentically, you have to walk away.
You have to space between you, and Pleasantville.

Maybe, like me, you have to throw your hands in the air and scream:
“Everything is not fine. No matter how many times you say it is or band-aid it all up, it still isn’t fine.”

So you make new choices.

You decide to do what is best and healthiest and easiest for you to live with every day and you own it.

You believe in the choices that you are making.

You choose to face the pain of walking alone because it hurts less than pretending.

You gather up your pieces of what is left and you keep moving forward.

You stay open to possibilities, but you refuse to allow old mindsets to hold you down.

And you wrap God’s truth around your heart tightly, and you cling to His track record in the restoration department.

The end.

Dear Younger, More Naive, Critical, Me

i6vmsv

In case you need a reminder today: It’s going to be okay. You are not a failure.

Lapse, relapse, messed up, slipped up, fucked up, wrong choice?
It doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve sobriety.
It doesn’t mean that you will always just mess up.
It also doesn’t mean that you have failed and you should shelve the idea of attempting a new lifestyle.

I won’t bore you with the specifics in relation to all of the times that I lied to myself and cheated my sobriety and fucked up early on in my recovery.

Or how many times I sat surrounded by that cozy familiar feeling of numb, staring blankly into space as I listened to people who were telling me that I was loved and that they could see me, as I secretly pondered how much I didn’t deserve to be there hearing those things.

Since I sincerely don’t love giving direct advice, here is some that I would have whispered into my own ear:

You are changing your entire life. Calm down and slow down a little bit.
Listen. This is all new. You changed jobs, friends, locations, and your life is no longer recognizable. Your new normal will feel weird for a while and you will probably be uncomfortable and scared.
Maybe you aren’t sure that you will ever get used to it all, but you will.  It might take a long time to warm up to all of the new things, and for those new things to become your normal things, but they will. It takes time. Also, when you are in the midst of all of the changes you probably won’t be able to see how your small changes are important and it will be frustrating. You will have no idea how significant or incredible the small victories actually are, or how huge their role is to the process. Try to calm down and let the things play out, because I can assure you, they all matter.

Handle yourself with more care and stop with the picking.
Just stop. You are over-analytical and critical are there are not strong enough words to describe how harshly you handle yourself. It is okay that you are not meeting your own unrealistic expectations and unattainable goals. You are shedding skin that you have lived in for over twenty-years. This process is painful. You expected sobriety to be the answer, and while it is the first step toward peace and freedom, it is only the first step in the right direction. Keep pushing through. Keep rewriting and overshadowing your old beliefs about yourself and about what you thought your experiences and choices meant. You get to choose what happens next.

Recovery changes and it isn’t as black and white as people think.
There’s grey. The  grey is where the magic happens. It’s where the lessons and learning and navigation take place. When you make a mistake or forgot to journal, or if you miss a meeting, or lose your temper, or slip up, or feel your old ways of thinking or coping creeping back to the forefront of your mind, that doesn’t mean that you throw everything else out the window.
Your progress still matters. Don’t discount all of the days and weeks that you walked through the doors of the church sober with your homework done. Don’t overlook all of the times you came straight home from work or that one time that you turned your car around and decided to come back home instead of going where you weren’t supposed to go. Don’t believe that since you slipped up that you should completely derail. You haven’t failed, you messed up. And that’s it.
Now you stand up and you own it, and admit it and you keep moving forward.

3 Powerful Things I Have Learned In Recovery

i6vmsv
Funny, amazing, beautiful, painful, crazy awesome things happen when you allow God to disassemble your entire life and the person who you thought you were, and allow transformation to happen.

I am not sure if I have gone through so many internal overhaul’s because I got sober at a young age, or because until that point I had never truly cared about the importance of self-discovery, or because I get bored easily. Probably a combo of the three, but nevertheless, I have learned a lot along the way so far and I know that I am not anywhere near the end of the learning process. 

Here are a few unexpected things that I have learned along my journey:

I don’t know.
I don’t have answers. Not about my recovery and most definitely, not about yours.
Instead of rollin’ up on my upcoming ten-year chip overflowing with intellectual, shiny, advice or with some cataclysmic, overabundance of wisdom, it’s the opposite.
I realize with humility that I really don’t have answers, I only have personal experiences.
I have at my disposal, an arsenal full of weapons that work for me and a storage shed crammed with a long list of stuff that didn’t work for me that I continuously try to empty.
I have trial and error, and a lot of trial but probably a lot more error.
I also have the wisdom gained through face planting experiences, from falling over the bumps in the road, and from making lefts when I could have chosen to take a smoother route with what would probably be a better, healthier vantage point.

And also, several days per month I question my own strength, sanity, abilities and purpose. So I humbly remind you, it’s okay to not know all of the things all of the time.

Proceed with caution in the presence of Chronic Advice Philanthropists.
Online, or in close proximity to me. Bye Felicia them all day. They are givers. And no, there isn’t anything wrong with being a giver. But too much of a well-intended not-so-good thing triggers my internal alarm bells. Red flags everywhere.
I am all for people helping people. I am all for information & knowledge sharing and encouraging other people.
But in my experience there is a fine line between telling people how they should feel, and explaining to them what they should be doing and how it looks very similar to the advice giver’s path – and listening to someone and allowing them to talk about their problems, and guiding them or simply allowing them to experience the gift of self-revelation through expression.

Guidance or listening ears = good. People telling you what you should be doing or that what you are doing breaks golden recovery program rules = back away slowly.
Taking advice that is not meant for you will only smash you into uncomfortable corners that you don’t belong in, onto roads that weren’t meant for you to travel on. By embracing truth that isn’t meant for your walk, you will only end up on yet another detour, taking the long way back home. To find your true self.

Here’s what I would advise that you do when it comes to how seriously you should take direct, pushy, judgmental, blanket, forced, advice:
Don’t.
The end.

Looking back at your past won’t always be that interesting.
I really wouldn’t have believed you if you would have told me that some day I would get to a place where looking back wasn’t a necessity, but rather, something that helps me to help other people.

It is not longer about standing in awe of how much I have overcome, it is about showing others how far they can move.

It’s moved away from me moving away from my painful past, and has me walking closer and standing by other people to remind them that they are capable of moving away from their old way of living and thinking and doing and being. It’s about reminding them that they can also learn new things and embrace a newer, healthier, version of themselves.

This shift in mindset wasn’t a conscious or intentional effort on my part, it just sort of happened.

My psychological road trips are much less frequent and less necessary.
Obviously, my story (and all that entails) will always be a part of who I am, but it is not as pronounced as it used to be. The best way that I can describe it, is that as time passes it fades, it’s status has officially shifted to low-key.  It’s not as vibrant or relevant as it once was.

Most importantly, it has lost its power to dictate how I view my person. It has lost its power to influence how I feel about my capabilities, and my worth.

And I am really kind of digging it.

I Am The Child Of An Addict & I Am A Former Stigma Supporter

stigma
If anyone understands what the ramifications of guilt and shame associated with the relentless, ignorant, shaming of another human being feels like, it would be me.

Guilty.

I was twenty-five before I realized that maybe, maybe my mom wasn’t actually just a batshit crazy woman, doomed to forever be an infuriating, selfish person.

Seriously.
I am a former-stigma pusher.

When I was young, jumping on the popular bandwagon of the ill-informed people felt natural to me. I wanted to be normal and to live normal and to know what the fuck normal felt like. I didn’t want people to think that I was okay with how things were, because I wasn’t.

I wasn’t able to comprehend the complexity of our situation. I didn’t understand her, or her ‘chosen’ lifestyle choices, or her adult decisions that weren’t adult at all, all of which completely ruined my not-so-hand-picked childhood.

As a teen, I was just a bitter, egocentric, wounded young woman who had no desire to learn about her or the ‘why’ behind the curtain. I didn’t care. I knew enough and there was no story or sickness or explanations that were going to be logical enough for me to feel like she deserved to be excused for how my early life went.

But in the last 5-10 years we have actually been given specific, more accurate diagnoses.
They have explained away the majority of what experiencing my own addiction still hadn’t.

Her particular situation was and is so complex and sticky and messy, and is not as much her fault as it is her illnesses that have been amplified and worsened by long-term addiction and under or mis-diagnosis.

Looking back, one of the greatest, most fresh, ripe, vital resources that laid the groundwork for some of my own deep-seeded toxic shame (that I would later unpack after I became addicted), was the shaming and judgment that I endured indirectly, (oopsie) as people boastfully voiced their self-righteous opinions about my household.

Throughout my childhood, many people publicly and privately shamed my mom.

And the more I watched as she was taunted and shunned, and gossiped about, and the more rumors and snickers and whispers were spread, the more it began to devalue who I was.

And the more I hated her.
And the more I blamed her.

All of that played a crucial role in how I began to identify and how I saw my value as a person.

Lately, there has been a ton of public criticism of parents and caregivers who have overdosed in front of children or minors.

So, as a child of an addict, AND as a former judgmental asshole, here are a couple of things that I want people to know:

Those kids? They FEEL it all.
Like, ALL of it.

If we care so much about the suffering, health, well-being, and future of the children who are a part an addicted family, remember: before you sprint to and inject your opinions into the comment area, or within the confines of your own day-to-day interactions, do so with a little bit of mindfulness and maybe, even compassion.

Children feel emotionally connected to their caregivers and that means that what you say about their addicted or ill parent hits them much harder, and deeper than you might think.

They feel every one of your harsh, cruel, critical, degrading comment that you blindly shove their way, and they will wear your long-stares like an awkward, warm, microfiber blanket wrapped tightly around their still developing self-image.
 

Your judgment will not change things.
You are keeping them down, right where you believe their parents are:  below you.

Unless you have been in that place you probably can’t imagine what they are already going through. They are trying to process things that move faster than they can go, that are far more complex than their brains can comprehend, and that are more damaging than an F5 tornado ripping through a mobile home community.

Addiction means maladaptive everything; irregular thinking, feeling, coping, seeing, and finally, being.

These children are over-compensating and are hyper-focused on looking like the rest of us. They spend a lot of time not being children, but running around in their own minds trying to sweep things up, hide and cover things and trying to decide if it is time for fight or for flight.
It would be a pretty accurate consensus to say that the deck isn’t stacked in their favor.

And guess how much your judgment of their caregiver or loved one does for their actual situation or how they feel or their odds of learning life skills and acquiring tools to acknowledge, process, reflect on and overcome their life experiences?

Exactly zero.

Guest: Trey Dyer-Drugrehab.com Author

drugrehab

Where Do Teens Find Drugs?

Check Your Medicine Cabinet

Teens can encounter drugs in a number of ways. At school, with friends, from drug dealers — these are all possible avenues for teens to find drugs. However, most teens do not have to leave their home to find drugs these days. A trip to the medicine cabinet has become the fastest and easiest way to get high.

The medicine cabinet is a one-stop shop for teens looking to find an easy high. Prescription drugs such as painkillers, ADHD medications and anti-anxiety medications are highly sought after by teens. To make matters worse, more Americans have unused prescription medications in their homes than ever before, which many experts attribute to the rise in prescription drug abuse.

“As America faces an explosive prescription drug abuse problem, parents need to be aware that their family medicine cabinet and the internet have become today’s back alley drug dealers,” said Michele Leonhart, Administrator of the Drug Enforcement Administration, in the DEA resource guide Prescription for Disaster: How Teens Abuse Medicine.

Prescription drugs are the most widely used substances among illicit drug users behind marijuana, according to the National Institute on Drug Abuse. In 2010, 26 percent of first-time drug users started by abusing prescription drugs.

According to multiple studies, including research from the Partnership for Drug-Free Kids, as many as one in five teens have used prescription drugs to get high in their lifetime. One in 10 teens has used over-the-counter cough syrup or cold medicine to get high.

Rates of teen opioid abuse are particularly alarming. According to the DEA, 10 percent of teens say they have used a pain medication to get high in the past year, and 6 percent say they used a pain medication to get high in the past 30 days.

How Do I Keep My Teen from Abusing Prescription Drugs?

Prevention is a lot simpler than most parents or guardians think; it does not take an army of DEA agents and drug counselors to prevent your teen from abusing prescription drugs. There are four simple precautions you can take:

  1. Take inventory of your medications:
    Knowing what medications you have in your home, the amount and where they are located can help you keep track of whether your teen is stealing prescription drugs to get high.
  2. Dispose of unwanted or unused medications:
    Forgotten or old medications are prime targets for teens looking to find an easy high. Prescription drug disposal sites at places such as police stations are becoming more common and allow people to safely dispose of unused medications that could fall into the hands of teens.
  3. Lock up your medicine cabinet:
    Teens cannot steal prescription drugs if they cannot access them. Locking up your medicine cabinet is an extremely effective way to prevent prescription drug abuse in your home.
  4. Talk to your teen about the dangers of prescription drugs:
    Often, teens believe that taking prescription drugs to get high is safer than illicit drugs. It is important for parents and guardians to teach their kids from a young age that prescription drugs are just as dangerous as illicit ones.

 

Taking the steps listed above and having open, honest conversations with your teen about the risks of substance abuse can help your child stay healthy and drug free.

 

trey-image Written by: Trey Dyer

Trey Dyer is a writer and content creator for DrugRehab.com.  He is a proponent of substance use disorder treatment. When Trey is not working, he can be found surfing, hiking and fly fishing.

 

Sources:

U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration. (2012, August). Prescription for Disaster: How Teens Abuse Medicine. Retrieved from https://www.dea.gov/pr/multimedia-library/publications/prescription_for_disaster_english.pdf

Johnston, L. et al. (2016, September 6). Marijuana use continues to rise among U.S. college students; use of narcotic drugs decline. Retrieved from http://www.monitoringthefuture.org/pressreleases/16drugpr_complete.pdf

Partnership for Drug-Free Kids. (n.d.). Preventing Teen Abuse of Prescription Drugs Fact Sheet. Retrieved from http://www.pharmacy.ca.gov/consumers/parents_preventing_teen_rx_abuse.pdf

Doubting God & Making My Faith My Own

20160928_111123

Yesterday I was digging around looking for an application for certification that I had misplaced. (Because there is nothing that makes more sense than being a housemommywife with credentials that I won’t actually be using.)
I found the application, along with (a quarter, yes.This is a small portion) of my hand-written notes from back in the day.

At the time they were written, I had made the big move from being an apathetic, empty, angry, deity denying, God-loathing person, and had moved somewhere closer to believing that there could be something or someone more.

I wasn’t ever a passive person and being sober didn’t change that. There was no way I was the kind of person who was just going to accept that this Jesus, who I had heard so much about, was real or that the Bible was “truth”, just because other people told me to believe it. I was a thinking person. (Yes. Even people who think can get addicted to drugs. True story.) I was not a person who was going to be pushed into believing something unless I actually believed it.

Although Jesus’ words were already penetrating through and touching some of the darkest, most hidden parts of my person. I didn’t just want to feel it for myself, I wanted to ‘know’.
I needed to know.

I was filled with hope and wonder, and doubt, fear, and uneasiness. But instead of running away, I chose to find out more. So, I followed where my ego led, and together we stepped out in ‘faith’ and fact checked God. I spent a fair amount of my free time analyzing, over-thinking, over-analyzing, intellectualizing and learning.

And as I Googled the absolute shit out of every single version of Christianity and other world religions, and as I studied and read and wrote and compared and contrasted core beliefs, missions, and their histories, something incredible happened.

God used my doubt and reluctance.

He waited as I sifted through all that I felt like I needed to, and he patiently and gently answered all of my questions. He took it all and he gave it back to me shiny and new and bigger than anything I could have dreamed of. I felt in awe when I heard and read more of His words, and they did feel so so sweet and refreshing to my soul-like no other advice or motivational prompting I had ever endured encountered.

This is where I realized that on my quest, I had somehow actually developed faith in God, through the words and life of Jesus. I came out of the other side with pages full of notes, facts, practices, and miscellaneous information; with belief, hope, and a faith to call my own.

I don’t believe for one second that God is against education or thinking people or people who have questions or doubts. Not at all.

He knew that I needed to come to my own conclusions, so that I could see for myself that there is a difference between knowing and feeling; between probing, comparing, contrasting, and memorizing facts, and experiencing your own, personal, true faith through Jesus’ words. 

So. After I reminisced and took some time to laugh at the older, younger, version of myself, I let my toddler stomp all over my notes. He played & crumbled them up before he proudly carried them to the trash can like a big boy.

Like with several other components that I have picked up along my recovery journey, these notes served their purpose an it was finally time to let them go for good.

Guest: Marc- Afflictions Eclipsed by Glory

marc

It is my belief that everything happens for a reason.

A belief I was intrinsically born with I believe yet brought to fruition by my faith in a power that is greater than myself. My belief in all-powerful, all knowing, and all loving power that I myself, choose to call God!

My creator, my healer, my wonderful counselor and best friend, but most importantly, “My Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

It is through this belief that I have come to the conclusion that all my years of suffering in active addiction wasn’t for not. That all the pain I caused those who loved me most, had to be for a greater purpose. That all the people I lied to, cheated on, and stolen from, must somehow in the long run benefit in some weird way from the chaos that the world once knew as my life!

If I had to choose one person, the God had created to walk the face of this earth as the most influential in my life. it would be a man I have never met before, or even seen a real photograph of, and who some may even try and argue is simply just a figment of my imagination, but I beg to differ.

That man would be an author such as myself, but I consider him to be the greatest author of all time, the Apostle Paul. The original gangster, one of my God’s very own messengers to all of the humanity and quite possibly the second greatest man to ever dwell on this planet.

In a collaborative effort with the likes of many other great writers, they published a book. Hundreds of years ago if not even more than that, and in that book, in one of the many letters he penned in it, a few sentences he wrote have profoundly affected me more than any other-other piece of literary prose.

He wrote ” I have been pressed down, but not crushed. Persecuted not abandoned, struck down, but not destroyed. I am blessed beyond the curse, for his promise will endure, and his joy is going to be my strength.” 

Those two sentences for me sum up my journey from the depths of hell, swimming in the lake of fire of my active addiction. To the almost too many to even count blessings, that have occurred in the past six months of this journey into long-term, productive and healthy recovery.

It states to me that all though I was seriously pressed down by an addiction to mind and mood altering chemicals, that I have survived and I am alive. I was not crushed but definitely dealt with my fair share of persecution due to the enormous stigma that surrounds those who suffer from a Substance Abuse Disorder in today’s society.

I was not destroyed, even though I overdosed one time and tried taking my own life on more than one occasion. And that I am blessed beyond the curse of being a miserable, homeless, selfish drug addict who could not even stand to see the sight of his own face in the mirror.

Now off substances for some time, and back into my right mind am able to see that promise that Paul talked about. A promise that if I stay focused, motivated for change, and surrounded by a network of healthy support people who have my best interests in mind, that I too will attain the prize of Joy that he so strenuously mentions above.

That joy, that feeling of excited expectedness you have when you wake up in the morning eager to see the blessings that this new clean and sober life has to gift you creates the strength to keep on keeping on.

The strength to dive deep within your soul and begin to open some of door’s you have padlocked shut. The strength to tell those you hurt and those you love that “I am so sorry for the things I did in my past that caused you grief.” The strength to stand up, walk in front of the mirror and look yourself in the eyes and say ” you know what, I forgive you!!”

Be blessed you all and remember; I love you!

Marc Mcmahon is a published author, motivational speaker on addiction, and Soldier in a war to cripple the disease of drug addiction. Recruiting as many new soldiers as possible to launch an all-out assault against substance abuse. Join him in his fight. Together we can be an unstoppable force that makes this disease cringe every time he hears our boots marching towards him for battle!

4 Ways To Avoid Your Baggage, That Won’t Help You

bags

Baggage. We all have it.
How full it is, what it contains, and how willing you are to unpack it depends on who you are.
And I learned the hard way, as I do most of my life things, that unpacking the bag is more wise than some of the alternatives….

Growing up, I hid each part of who I wanted to be.
I abandoned my own desires and quieted my ideas and ignored my own needs. I tucked away my fear and pushed my pain down and hushed feelings of sadness.
My moves were calculated, and dictated by trauma.

My philosophy was pretty simple.

I just took all of the stuff that I couldn’t hold or handle, and I moved it. It was my quick-fix/out-of-sight, out-of-heart approach that I thought was helping me. I wasn’t intentionally saving it all of this stuff for some rainy day or hundreds of group therapy sessions in my mid-twenties.

I truly had no idea that repressing was not the same thing as processing and that hiding and avoiding wouldn’t have the same effect on my life and my future as acknowledging and confronting would.
I was sort of just aiming for the safe, warm fuzzies.

As I tucked it all away, it was being kept secure and intact in a figurative bag.
And you better believe that my baggeth had definitely runneth over.

It was a dark and ugly bag. Bursting at the seams because it had filled it for so many years, it had become so heavy and I knew in my heart that soon, I would not have the choice to take another step, even in my preferred direction: backward.

I would have done anything to avoid having to unzip that bag and open it up. Anything sounded better to me than confronting its contents, so I avoided it for as long as life would allow me to. 
On my road of self-discovery, I have discovered a few ways of handling my own baggage, that believe it or not, won’t actually help.

Here are four:

Hiding the bag.
I managed to hide hundreds of pills from myself over the years to make sure that I wouldn’t lose them, only to never, (ever) find them again. Yet I couldn’t manage to hide this bag for one nano second. It too bulky so it wouldn’t fit anywhere and no matter how many fistfuls of pills I ingested, I knew exactly where it was. I couldn’t forget where I tried to hide it. Insanity. It made me feel insane. I became hyper-focused on this game particular game of hide-and-seek not admitting to myself what I already knew: I wouldn’t ever win.

Ignoring the bag altogether.
Surely it wasn’t there if I told myself that it wasn’t.
I just told myself that the bag didn’t matter and if it did actually matter, or if it were meant to play any significant role in my actual life, it wouldn’t be in the bag in the first place, now would it? I labeled the contents of the bag ‘garbage’.
I could ignore trash easier than I could my truth. Here’s what I wasn’t expecting: Truth is always louder in the end, and it always comes out on top. Truth wins.

Shifting the weight of the bag.
This tactic was pretty reliable for a while, and it worked until it just couldn’t.
Sort of like if you had numerous bank accounts and also a money moving issue, with too much coming out and not enough going in. Eventually playing catch-up wouldn’t cut it, and the problem would explode, exposing the lack of available funds in your account and your inability to cover your ass. In my case, I ran out of stamina and shoulder room. Shifting and moving and changing positions was tiring.

Pawning it off onto willing shoulders, or any shoulders that weren’t mine.
It was like a game of hot-potato. I got rid of it as quickly as I could the second it was back in my hands to the person closest to me, who was standing with their arms out, willing to play the game.
This one was my favorite, go-to approach of ignoring the bag. Although the bag was still attached to me, these innocent gems carried it for me so that I could no longer feel the weight, and there is no better remedy for my conscience than volunteers who asked to carry my bag for me.

I will be the first to admit that it took quite a bit of time after I got sober for me to accept that this bag was mine.

I hated that it was mine and that I was responsible for it and I hated that I felt stupid and embarrassed for denying that it was mine for so long. But after some convincing, I realized that taking ownership of the bag was pretty important.

Accepting that no one else would, could, or should unpack it, was half of my battle. The other half of my battle was the actual unpacking part. I was terrified and unsure of my unpacking abilities. I had to allow the loving, caring, people who were in my life to stand beside me and hold the bag open. I had to believe them when they said that there was beauty packed deep inside, but it was my duty to bend down and scoop out the contents of my bag, one item, one memory, one mistake, one regret, and one tear at a time.

Ten years of recovery and my new life is contingent upon a process that reflects this same process.

I have had to continually live on faith, not knowing if I am going to actually find the beauty in the hard things. I have to accept the love given to me and I have to continue to do the work that I need to do in order to move forward.

And my bag?
Still not empty.
You heard me.

I am still unpacking.

I am still pulling out one thing at a time, dusting it off, and googling the shit out of it to make sure I am handling it correctly. (Kidding)

I am still digging and processing and healing and learning about myself. I have also come to the realization that I am not happy or grateful for all of the things that I have experienced but I am grateful for the lessons that my experiences have taught me.

And one of the most important lessons that I have taken away from all of this is that my personal freedom, and my ability to live and thrive and move forward, was not a result of my initial decision to try recovery.

I didn’t find freedom the second that I made the decision to live sober.

My freedom has been found inside of my baggage.

I found my freedom inside of the pain; in believing in myself.

I found my freedom within my personal belief, that I could, by God’s Grace and through His strength, move through all of the hard things that I had believed for so long, would kill me if I faced them.

The Experience of Love

love

 

Most of us were taught that God would love us if and when we change. In fact, God loves you so that you can change. What empowers change, what makes you desirous of change is the experience of love. It is that inherent experience of love that becomes the engine of change. 
― Richard Rohr

Why is love so scary? Maybe it’s because it asks us to be vulnerable before it delivers.

Addiction destroyed me. It ravaged my entire life and it took out everything that I had left. This would be the last phase of a long list of self-destructive habits that I had adopted; my last stop before I met an untimely death or an on-time life change, and the difference between the two would be my choice to make.

So I crawled away from drugs and alcohol with my life, and a deep seeded desire to experience rest- not knowing if I would make and certainly not believing that I deserved it.

But it was this destruction that opened a new door for me.

It ripped me apart just enough to create slithers of cracks in the shell that I had lived in. The walls that I had built as a child to keep the danger and fear and instability at a safe distance were beginning to weaken. I was raw and vulnerable and cut open.

And Hope crept in.
It was finally time.

I  was apprehensive to fully embrace the belief that I was capable of change, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure that I would be strong enough to hack this sober living thing despite desiring freedom so badly I could feel it in my bones.

As I listened as other people who, just like me, had been in the place I was in, I realized that they knew how I was feeling. They had been where I had been.

They made it out to tell about the other side.
And that gave me hope.

Entertaining this new hope, would change things.
My hope turned into love, and I was in for quite a ride, because love is a game changer by nature.

Hate and Love ARE mutually exclusive. 

I hated myself. I hated my choices and my past and my childhood and my mistakes.
I hated people who had peaceful lives, who could love, and smile and who looked annoyingly happy.
I hated that I couldn’t get anything right.
I hated who I saw in the mirror.
And I hated that I couldn’t seem to feel anything else but hatred.

Hope and love grow and unfortunately they don’t deliver the instant kind of gratification that I had grown accustom to.

It is actually really hard to transition to the comfort of a life filled with hatred to an unknown world filled with the vulnerability that love requires. It is a process of learning and stretching and shedding and growing. It asks that we choose to have faith and to trust that love will actually change things.
We are asked to set down our old way of seeing the world and the things in it, and walk away.
It asks that we just keep walking.

But over time this love smothers everything and it will cover all of the old things.  We will actually start to believe that love is as powerful and life-changing as we had heard.  And then, we begin to believe; in ourselves, and in others, and in hope.

We get excited because it is all real and as terrifying as it feels, it is ours.
All because of a hope that led us to leap into faith so that we could experience love.

And we know that the greatest of the three, is love.

 

What’s It Like To Be Sober?

USA-352047
September means that National Recovery Month has come around again.
Maybe for you that means that the extra circulation and publicity and open sharing will get your mind reeling. You have heard all of these things before and while many of them sound appealing to you, you are afraid.

Because moving can feel risky.

It can be scary, and it’s almost always costly.
It means uprooting from everything that you know.
It means that you are choosing to leave behind all of the familiar routes and back roads and short-cuts. You are voluntarily waving good-bye to your comfortable paths and there won’t be any more trips to your go-to places.

But it can also be brilliant. It can be the breath of fresh air that your soul has been yearning for.
Here’s what life is like in the sober state:

You never thought It’d be you.
Never. Not in a million years.
But you are excited.
And you aren’t alone, because we all feel this way here.
It is very similar to island, beach-front living, or having a day job that is truly living your passion.
Every single day you wake up surprised.
Yes. This is actually your new home.

There are a ton of ways to get here, don’t worry. 
You may have taken your time to make this move, and like me, you may have gotten lost on your way in a few dozen hundred times. Maybe you got turned around somehow, or you bailed at the exit before the right exit, or maybe some moron gave you cardinal directions. But none of that matters now.
You found it.
Now you know that there are several ways to get here and yours wasn’t necessary the wrong way, it just wasn’t the fastest route. Some of us prefer scenic, and that’s okay.

Move over other indigenous, unclassified language. 
You are part of a community that resembles a big melting pot of diversity. We don’t all speak the same dialect but we do understand each other. We get it. Twelve-stepper or not, chances are, you will know what ODAAT means and you do your best to choose person-centered words that empower, that don’t play into the discrimination of you or your fellow neighbors. We try to take care of each other here.

We just aren’t into walls. 
Walls really aren’t our thing, not on an individual level and they won’t be popping up, dividing this community either. We are pretty into loving our neighbors and we avoid division for the sake of the whole. We won’t stand for it. We happily take in the displaced wanderers who are seeking shelter and support,  and we prefer to be close to those who are in need. For anyone who is choosing to make this place their home we want you to feel safe. You finally have a place to land.

We are locally owned, operated & are completely self-sufficient.
That means there is so much room for adaptation and growth. We are a moving system pushing out so much energy, we keep things moving and functioning and advancing at insane rates.
We are film-makers, writers, artists, authors, counselors, sober parents, doctors, cashiers, small-business owners, anonymous people, loud people, and so much more. We are alive and kicking and producing and are so not hyper-focused on what we do, but on who we are and how we can help each other, help other people.

Welcome to the sober state, population 23 million……… and counting.

Guest: Simone- I Knew I Would Never Drink

AD0066.png
Before I was even old enough to drink, I knew I probably never would.

I remember the exact moment I made that decision; more accurately, I remember the exact moment that decision was made for me. I was 15 years old, it was a Sunday morning, and I was cleaning vomit out of the carpet with a toothbrush.

Everyone in my family liked to drink.

My mother drank, my father drank, and now that he was of the legal drinking age, my sister liked to drink too. She had always drank, ever since high-school, but now she didn’t have to hide it as much.

My sister had come home that night (or morning, depending on how you look at it) at 3 a.m. covered in vomit and completely delirious. I only woke up because I heard her yelling at the door like some combination of words would force it open. When I was finally able to get her inside the house, she immediately collapsed into a heap on the floor. She slurred something to me about this “being the right house,” but I ignored it, attributing it to what was undoubtedly a serious case of alcohol poisoning. It took strength I didn’t know I had to pull her up the stairs to her room, and when I laid her down on the bed, she instantly threw up.

The sun was already coming up, and at this point I was already awake, so I grabbed an old toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet and got to work. As I was scrubbing her leftovers out of the fibers of the carpet, I wondered how this day could get any worse. At that exact moment was when I heard it.

The sound of shattering glass erupted through the house. Strange voices from outside yelled in “If you’re inside, come out with your hands up!” It was all a blur. I flew down the stairs, my father’s door swung open, we ran outside and were met face to face with four officers and three police cruisers parked on our lawn. In the moments that followed, my sister was dragged out of her bed by two police officers and tossed on the hood of a cruiser with her hands cuffed behind her back. Since she couldn’t, they explained what happened. She had driven home drunk, and pulled into a house three doors down the road. She had broken in, found her way to a couch, and fallen asleep on it, but not before throwing up on it. The neighbors had no idea who she was, and as such called the police, who had visited every house until they heard reports of her entering our house.

Lucky for her, the neighbors didn’t press charges.

When my sister was finally conscious, the first thing she did was walked over and apologize. She paid for the couch and the lock on the door, which she was surprisingly able to break. When she came back, my dad and I were waiting for her at the kitchen table. Before we could say a word, she started crying. She told us how the alcohol had gotten away from her. She told us about a pill addiction she had been hiding from us for months. I looked at my father, whose face was one of stern confidence but also clearly holding back tears. After a long silence, my father got up and left the room without saying a word. My sister and I sat in silence at the table. In between tears, I could make out “sorry”. I knew she meant it.

My father returned with his laptop opened in his hands. “It’s not going down like this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Rehab. We’ll pay.” My sister, her head still in her hands, nodded silently. We spent the day looking up places all over the country. We found alcohol rehabs in Maine and some California drug rehab centers, but eventually settled on a local outpatient treatment. She went every day for a month, not missing a single meeting. Without my sister’s commitment, my father’s compassion, and the generosity of my neighbors, the situation could have been far worse.

It’s been a decade, and my sister is still sober.
I still don’t drink.

I think back to that moment, now over ten years ago, as I watched where alcohol had taken my sister, and how much worse it could’ve been.

I’ve never been happier to be sober.

Simone Flynn blogs about addiction, recovery, mental health, and wellness.

Here’s What I Thought I Needed To Be Accepted

loveacceptancebelonging
From my kitchen I could hear the television in our living room. I caught the end of an interview of a young woman.

I listened as she tried to explain why she had been bleaching and lightening her skin. She described what it felt like to experience feelings of inadequacy and when she began to view herself as ‘different’ and why she equated that with not being good enough.

She wanted to belong.

I could relate to this person on so many levels. There was a time that believed that I had to be anything but ‘me’ in order to belong.

Here are 3 of ridiculous things that I believed wholeheartedly:

1. Living from the outside-in was the only way to live.
This was a place where physical appearance ruled my perspective on everything.
The size of my boobs or the smoothness of my thighs or the level of my tan or the length of my hair had nothing to do with who I was a person, but you couldn’t have convinced me otherwise.

Men liked me, and for a while, I thought a couple of them truly loved me.
I may have accepted and ignored physical abuse and emotional abuse but I felt loved. The men boys who I chose may have been emotionally unavailable and mostly project men for my own fixing pleasure, but they wanted me.
I thought that this sick dysfunctional cycle that I was stuck in, was love.

Why I was wrong:
It took me around twenty-five years to understand that feeling good on the outside cannot seep into my soul and change how I feel on the inside.

It happens the other way around.

Change starts in our heart and manifests and changes us on the outside.
We do have a glow and it’s full of self-love and confidence.
That’s beauty.

And when we realize this and allow ourselves to experience it, not only do we grow exponentially but we are able to set higher standards for ourselves. Our definition of love changes forever.

2. I thought that I had to fit in with everyone else in order to matter. 
I was around seven-years-old when I looked around and noticed that my world didn’t quite match everyone else’s. So I began to take meticulous notes. I would use them to compare and contrast and berate myself.

According to my calculations my life was completely fucked up.

I didn’t really have a plan but I did know that people couldn’t know about my real life.

Why I was wrong:
I started to believe that in order to fit I had to be just like the rest of them or as close as possible. So for me, that meant denying who I was and where I came from and what I was experiencing and how I was feeling. I denied all of it and refused to believe that I could be good enough the way that I was. I couldn’t belong or be accepted if people knew that I was broken and damaged. In order to deny all of those things I had to pretend a lot.

And on my quest to fit with everyone else I lost myself.

3. I didn’t deserve anything that looked or felt like consistency or healthy.
Much like that young woman on television I had one constant voice of reason who did try on numerous occasions to sit me down and tell me that I deserved more. That I was loved and smart and capable of awesome shit.
(my grandma)

But I was not able to see what she could see.
I didn’t know that person that described.

She saw qualities and potential that I still had no idea existed, and it annoyed me.
It made me feel angry that she kept trying to force me to look.

Why I was wrong:
I felt like I had to fill certain criteria in order to like who I was. It took me quite a few years to see that there is so much value in all of my weak areas and a lot to be gained from mistakes and none of those things dictate my value or capabilities as a woman.

So many of us begin our decent into that hollow, dark, empty place that we are all familiar with by believing that we are not good enough the way that we are.

Or that where we come from or where we find ourselves is too embarrassing or not normal enough to make the cut that society will deem as acceptable.

At some point we trade any authenticity for belonging at all costs.

We don’t believe that boldly owning our battle scars could possibly be as effective or as powerful as sweeping them under the rug and shamefully hiding their existence.

And in the end we are left with nothing.

We don’t even feel accepted or like we belong.
It was all for nothing.
We are void of connection to self and others and we have no idea why or how to get back up again.

But we can, and we do. 
And when you’re ready to reach out, you will be introduced and welcomed and loved on in a realm that you might not have believed actually existed.

It is one full of people who are welcoming and loving and wiling to connect.

These people are like us.
They desire real, raw, meaty, relationships that have only one requirement:

We come as we are.

So if you’re new here please know that you are accepted and you belong somewhere.

5 Things I Learned From My First Blog Baby

Original FBizarre

I launched my first blog, Forgiving Bizarre, back in 2011.

This was my first header photo.
Okay, not completely mine because it was composed of several bad ass photos that I stole from Google images, but mostly mine.

And because the name alone wasn’t enough to let my readers (*cough, no one) know that I meant business when I said I had been through hell, I decided to go the ‘tell all’ route when creating this gem.

This art represented my life experiences and how I was feeling. When I look at this now I can see all of the pieces of my past and how they correlate. Each photo that I carefully chose represented a specific piece of my still-wounded, mushy, heart.

Yes I had been sober for 5 years, but that didn’t mean that I knew how to move on from having a parent addicted to crack, or a childhood filled with the repercussions of her seemingly insane choices, I had no idea how to move forward without my family, without any acknowledgement of my personal victories and without their support. I felt lost. And for some reason, I couldn’t’ see past this pain.

So I wrote for a couple of years.

Everything that I wrote, I wrote with equal parts passion, rage and sadness. I screamed and cried and I wondered and over-analyzed and cringed.

And I healed.

I shared it all and I voluntarily turned it loose into this realm that I was still getting acquainted with.

And it rocked.
It changed things.
It helped my heart to mend and my mind to see more clearly.

And then one day I woke up and decided that I was done.
It was time to for me to move forward.

So I did.

I didn’t transfer files.
I didn’t copy or save any of my blog posts.
It was all just gone.

I bought my new domain and felt confident that it was more fitting and applicable to my new outlook on life.

I went from Forgiving Bizarre to Discovering Beautiful and I truly haven’t looked back in regret one time.

I learned some things through this process and I want to share them with you.

1) What we want and what we need aren’t always matchy matchy.
I wanted a blog. I wanted to write things that could help other people.
But what I needed was to continue to heal and I needed to give myself some time to grow before I could do what I wanted.

2) Finding a healthy way to release bottled up emotion can be your unrivaled new bestie.
I did not anticipate the healing that would take place in my life as a result of writing openly and honestly, holding nothing back and not giving two fucks about what people might think about my feelings or my experiences. I have learned that true, real, raw, healing-power is proportionate to our willingness to be crazy honest with ourselves, and loyal to our need to validate our feelings.

3) Don’t steal photos.
It’s not classy.

4) You can’t rush your journey.
It is going to unfold as it may and you have to work with what it is. I am not saying that you don’t have the power or choice to bust your hiney and work work work to move things along, but keep in mind that balance is the key that unlocks peace and a plethora of other life things. Learning to enjoy the season that you are in can mean the difference between happiness and contentment and gratitude, and feeling tired and cranky and misunderstood.

5) It’ s okay to start where you are and work with what you have.
I had a domain name and a desperate need to purge 24 years worth of drama, pain, and other nasty, negative, toxic stuff. We all begin somewhere and you cannot ever move from where you are or work toward your dreams or your goals if you are fixated on not looking ridiculous. I always tell myself that I have definitely looked ridiculous in my day, (many times) and none of them were when I was crushing my goals. Also, sometimes when you feel like you are flailing or floundering or not doing it like everyone else is, you are actually doing exactly what you are supposed to be doing.

I Could Have Died In My Safe Places.

 

black

Since sobering up I have traded my daily quest for temporary freedom for something with more meat on it; something deeper. Something less transparent and more enduring.

When I was at my darkest I sought out freedom on a daily basis.
It was a frail, wimpy, expensive, kind of freedom. But cheap was fast, easy, and familiar to me.

I associated being physically and emotionally distant from any place that might contain other humans with my definition of freedom. Being anywhere that I could isolate myself without anyone fucking with me or asking me questions or encouraging me to change? Boom. Freedom. Winning the race against my own thoughts and seeing how quickly I silence my internal, perpetual, self-deprecating shame fests? More Freedom.

Obviously I had missed the mark in my search for freedom, but it took me a long time to recognize that my daily quests weren’t as much about freedom as I thought. It was about honoring and comforting the little girl inside of me. Refusing to abandon coping mechanisms that had always delivered. I did what I had to do and in return, I was given another safe, temporary place to hide.

When I chose to say yes to recovery, I chose to say good-bye to that girl. I chose to embrace the woman who I am, who God created me to be.I chose to believe that there really was something better out there or even better, inside of myself and every bone in my body excitedly anticipated what my first taste of real, lasting, freedom would be like.

My true freedom came when I began to believe that I didn’t need to hide anymore and as I discovered why I had spent my entire life taking refuge in various forms of hiding, and that is where I found my healing.

I could have died hiding.
But I didn’t.

The grace of God carried me right through the unknown, right into the realm full of feeling human beings. It is nice here. It isn’t perfect but the imperfections make it unique. It isn’t the same every day but the unexpected parts are what make it mine. It doesn’t always feel good but it is how I know that I am alive. It isn’t enough to break me because I have already felt what broken is. And here, there isn’t a guarantee that I will know wtf I am doing at any given moment and I am not sure that I don’t look ridiculous fumbling around from time to time,  but it’s proof that I am still trying.

I can rest more easily knowing that I am a strong woman who can overcome hard things. The most freeing part of this entire process has been coming to believe that I can learn to face the things that come my way, without hiding.

And you can too. If you are in a place that you don’t recognize or don’t feel completely comfortable with don’t turn around. Transition isn’t always super smooth. Change takes time. Learning new ways and embracing and practicing more healthy approaches to handling the ups and downs that life throws at you isn’t easy. Every single day you are moving further away from that old version of you, right into the path that you were meant to be on.

 

Have Your Time.

toolate
I turned 33 today.
33 non-recovery, biological years old.
That means have been in recovery since I was 23 + a fistful of months.

People often make comments about how cool it is that I got sober at such a young age.
And I have to humbly agree. It is pretty cool.

Experiencing spiritual death & emotional and psychological depletion doesn’t really leave you with much. After bankrupting myself internally I began working on my physical exhaustion.
Because, why not?

Young, empty, impoverished, and exhausted.
And out of ideas.

This is where I found myself.
Or where I realized that I had lost myself.
Either way, it was my time.

I had been carrying around weight that had not ever been mine to carry.
I had believed my ill-formed assumptions about who I was and what I was capable of for too long.
I relied on my anger to keep me in perpetual turmoil and stuck in a cycle of self-loathing.
I was tired of drawing strength from resentment and bitterness and unforgiveness.
And the after-effects of the trauma that I had experienced were winning.
They had conquered every single aspect of who I had become as a human being.

It was my time.

I had run out of rope and burned down all of the bridges.
I had backed myself into a corner that I couldn’t hide in for one more second, because if I had, the darkness would have suffocated me completely. My self-hatred would have just finished the job that my desire to run from my pain had started.

It was just my time. 

No matter how old or young you are doesn’t matter.
When it is your time it is your time.

Even if you can’t seem to feel anything else you will know when it is your time.

So don’t let your biological age get it twisted in your mind.

*There is no such thing as too young or too damaged to choose to live a sober life and to start to get to know who you truly are deep inside of your core.

*There is no such thing as too old or too damaged to choose to live a sober life and start to get acquainted with who you truly are deep inside of your core.

We all start from the same place regardless of our age…….
and that is the place where we find ourselves ready. When it is your time.

We all end up finding out the same truths and experiencing the same miraculous grace and celebrating the same excitement….
and that is that we aren’t permanently broken and the pieces can be put back together to create something so inherently unique and beautiful. When it is your time. 

So please. Be proud of your decision to make a change.
Don’t give up on yourself and don’t allow the noise in your head convince you that you shouldn’t get to have your time.

You are strong enough to make the choice to change and you get to say:

“This is it. This is my time.”

Happy Birthday.

Why I Keep My Boundaries and Why We Can’t Be Friends

friends
Something I have learned through my experiences with my family and their ongoing addictions and my own struggles with addiction and substance abuse is when it comes to implementing and honoring boundaries….

All of it resides in a beautiful, flexible, gray area.

And this area is meant to provide a safe place but things there aren’t permanent. They are there sort of leasing short-term lots; like a camp ground for the shitty things that we don’t know what to do with, so we just do our best and continue on knowing that everything in the gray area can be re-evaluated at any time and assessed to fit what’s most current.

Things can then stay there or we can take them and move them and change them.

And the choice is always up to us.

I haven’t always fully understood this but that is because it has taken time.

For a long time, creating a boundary within a relationship or a friendship always felt so concrete. I believed that because I made a decision, that meant that I had ruined any possibility of a future relationship.
*(And yes, sometimes cutting ties and burning the bridge to the ground is what’s up. It is what is best for everyone and in my experience, it can be therapeutic and positive.) But that isn’t the only option and it is not always obvious as to what ‘the next right thing’ is going to be.

So when I got a friend request on Facebook from my brother last week it through me through a loop. I was surprised to see it in the notifications because it has been around six months since we last spoke.

Without thinking it to death, I sent him a message that said I wasn’t trying to offend him or make him feel bad, but I am not sure that we’re ready to be friends. I added that I hoped he was feeling well and that he was alright.

And that was it.
For now that is all that I have to give.

But it is also all that I should be giving to him.
He doesn’t need to be my friend right now.

Not only are boundaries okay.
Not only are they (not) permanently fixed , set constrictions.
They also aren’t always set because they are what’s best for US.

I have watched and felt and observed our dynamic over the years that I have been sober.
For some reason my brother and I cannot be in the same room for long periods of time.

Too much of my own sober time has been spent perpetually wondering what I have done wrong or what I could maybe do better or different, and where the rage and impulsive behavior comes from when we are together. I am always left feeling confused and sad and hurt.

But it wasn’t until the truth finally clicked:

I am a trigger for him.

It’s that simple.
And right now, he doesn’t recognize it.
Until he is in a place where he is ready to confront that, we can’t be friends.

Seeing me and being around me obviously stirs his emotions and buried issues and negative feelings that he has in his heart and mind that cause him pain and anxiety and anger.

Lots of anger.

How badly do I wish I could just explain this to him and have it click?
But that’s not how it works. I know that.

I believe that he needs and deserves connection because he is valuable.

But it is wrong to believe that I have to be that person to connect with him or that I am a good candidate to help them feel connected.

Because in this particular instance, I am not. I am not the person for the job even if I want to be and it doesn’t matter that I feel like I am over-qualified for the job.

It’s God’s job.
There is no doubt in my mind that He will provide the right people who will walk alongside of my brother when he is ready for that walk. And when it is my time to walk I will walk alongside of him, gladly.

I know that one day we will have to come face to face with some hard things that he has buried. I am also positive that some day I will need to apologize for a long list of things that I have done indirectly and purposefully and unknowingly, and I am ready to ask for his forgiveness so that we can learn to move past the water underneath the bridge of reconciliation.

I am open and willing to do that when the time comes.

Until then I am going to try to stay out-of-the-way and do my best not to become another hindrance to an already difficult and bumpy road.

Taught to Love?

Ribbet collage
I know now that some of the experiences that I encountered during my younger years were definitely purposeful and thought out, but I wasn’t aware of any of it.

All of it had an impact on how I view prejudice and labeling and still affects how I see other human beings.

When I stayed with my grandma, (which was as often as I could pull off) she would pack our time together full of as many things as she could so that I could ‘experience life’ as she put it. Of course I had no idea what she was talking about but it sounded like fun.

Looking back it was obvious.
She wanted me to see that there were good things in the world.
Fun things. Positive things. And mostly, funny things.

Humor was her escape & the arts were her passion.
I really enjoyed gazing into her world and getting away for a while.
He life revolved around reading and writing and creating and living in the world as a force for something unapologetically good.

The plays that she wrote and produced were charismatic, witty and hilarious as were the ones that she was cast in. Sometimes at rehearsals I would peek in and watch everyone getting into costume, perfecting their make-up and going over their lines. I would walk around and take trips to the pop machines and I liked hanging out, observing everyone. There was a lot of commotion, but overall it was just a fun environment to be in.

Ribbet collage1

My grandma was always busy but never made me feel like I was in the way. I was always close to her in proximity whether she was a cast member, if she was bossing other people around, if she was emcee, or involved in some other capacity.

Some of the most fun I have ever had in my life I had watching and being with her and her friends.

I came to love these people. Over the years her friends became familiar faces to me and eventually, felt like family. I had been acquainted with and close to and around several openly gay men and women for years before I even knew what gay was. I had no clue that some of my grandma’s best and closest (and most treasured, trusted, loving and loyal) friends also happened to be gay.
None.
Probably because it was never mentioned because it never came up because no one cared.

We didn’t have discussions like that.
I wasn’t shielded or protected from anything because I wasn’t in danger. I never felt threatened or weird or unsafe or anything. It was a nonissue so there wasn’t anything to take note of. I had seen so much musical theater and community theater and drag queens tearing sh*t up and I was completely oblivious; I truly had no idea that there were people in the world who might not appreciate single one of these amazing, talented people. I really didn’t understand it.

20160706_120210

There was a lot of traumatic stuff that I experienced as a young person.

I might not have had morals and values instilled into my heart in a pointed and purposeful way and I wasn’t taught about religion and I had no idea who Jesus was and no one who I grew up around really cared about praying before they ate a meal or thanking God for daily blessings.

I also know many people could say that sadly, I just didn’t know any better or that I didn’t have a compass to guide me along as a young person, so I was just floundering around without sound judgment.

I really can’t disagree with any of that, actually.
I was floundering and I didn’t have a leg of moral truth to stand on.

And I am not advocating for that parenting technique for obvious reasons.

But the one aspect of my upbringing that was consistent and that I am truly & deeply thankful for?

No one took the time to teach me to hate anything or anyone for any specific set of reasons.

I suppose that is one major perk of spending the majority of your time as a child with a primary caregiver who had other things to do besides instill things in the small people who mostly got in the way… 🙂

If my grandmother were still here I would tell her that I get it now.
It all finally makes sense.

20160706_120043

I understand why she encouraged me to play on a special needs softball team as a child.
I can see why she fought so hard and patiently jumped through ten-billion hoops strategically set up for people like her to fail, so that she could open up her day care center that would allow her to serve the special needs community AND the typically developing children in ONE facility.  I finally see why she was so adamant fighting for inclusion for people who don’t have a voice that is loud enough.
I see why she fought the city council when they told her that she couldn’t paint flowers on the outside of her home, simply because it was part of the historical district.
I finally get why it was so important to her to put up her annual ‘public’ volleyball net and croquet.
Or why she was combative with people who told her that she was ‘too old’ to line dance or have neon lights underneath her car.

20140321_142859

I am not saying that her life was perfect or that she had it all right or she didn’t make mistakes.

But I cannot disregard or ignore what she got right.

I recognize that she did all that she could do to stand up for the rights of other people, and she refused to waiver.

When people told her what or who or why she should be something or anything other than what or who she wanted to be or why she should fold or bend or back down, she never did.

That’s not an easy thing to do.

From a young age I watched her tell people that she didn’t care about what was ‘normal’ she cared about what was ‘right’ and people didn’t always appreciate that.

She was a notorious boat-rocking lady who was either loved and accepted or passionately hated.

There never really was an in-between.

If I can continue to learn anything from people who pave the way it is that the road is bumpy at first.

It is the more difficult road to walk.

It takes guts to do new things and to stand for things that might not be the kinds of things that people are ready or used to standing for. It is uncomfortable sometimes and it isn’t always pretty.

But we have to stand anyway.
Today more than ever.

Whether it is race or murder or injustice of any kind regarding any issue- love wins.
Love wins it all. It always has. It is the greatest command that we have. Love God and love others.

Matthew 22:36-40

 “Teacher, which is the most important commandment?” Jesus replied, “‘You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. A second is equally important: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.The entire law and all the demands of the prophets are based on these two commandments.”

 

I Care.

images

This so-called “F*ck-it Bucket”.
How does this work and where would I find one at a decent price?

-Asking for a friend. 🙂

I think I used to believe that I owned one of these buckets. This was back when I also tricked myself into embracing who I thought I was or had to be, and that person was the emotional equivalent to an armored tank. That or a hollowed-out lava rock. Something like that.

Present day me will not chuck any of the things into a figurative bucket that has gained a pretty rockin’ reputation for being the ‘easy way’ to get rid of f*cks given.

And remember, it’s not because I haven’t tried it.

It isn’t that I think there is something inherently wrong with people who are capable of committing to saying ‘f*ck it’ and leaving it all there in the bucket, where they put it.

It’s because I have lived that way and it didn’t work out.
My f*ck-it bucket and I have amicably parted ways.

Here in the land of the living I have learned that I can say matter-of-factly that I actually have a lot of f*cks left to give about a lot of things and denying this is counter-productive to personal growth in all its forms.

Yes, I even care and think of and occasionally worry about things that may not merit or deserve to grace the presence of my sacred f*cks.

But I can certainly appreciate the idea behind and usage of the bucket. It holds its contents and keeps it separate from other things.

I also understand need and yearning and strongly desiring release; to be able to let go of something and move forward without feeling the weight of whatever is in that bucket.

To just keep going without looking back.

But it’s the looking back part that tends to ignite internal struggle thus defeating the whole idea and intrigue and convenience of a f*ck-it bucket.

Personally, I prefer things to be more analyzed scrutinized —-organized.

I like having a plethora of buckets available.
I might toss this or that into one of these, or something similar:

#1: The ‘when to let go’ bucket
#2: The ‘when to hang on’ bucket
#3: The ‘take your time and evaluate the things that are in my control’ bucket
#4: The ‘be vigorously honest about the things that I cannot control’ bucket
#5: The ‘I am so grateful and humbled for and because of these things’ bucket
#6: The ‘I have chosen to forgive’ bucket
#7: The ‘things that I am sure of’ bucket
#8: The ‘remind yourself that you are healed, forgiven, and not your past’ bucket

The truth is that I care too deeply and feel too immensely in general to utilize a f*ck-it bucket correctly. I can’t toss it in and neuralyze my memory like it never mattered because f*ck-it.

But I can remind myself of a few things.

I have done all that I can do, and now it is in this bucket over here.
And because I myself am a miracle, who was once thought to be a throw-away person who would or could not ever make any real change, I know that there is always hope for something different to happen or come from this situation. There really is always hope.

But in the mean time, I don’t have to carry it around.

My sobriety and my life that I live every day in recovery from drugs, alcohol, and trauma. It has shown me what it means to admire and embrace my own authenticity and from that, I have learned to be mindful of what is mine to carry and what part of the load I can put down.

I have been introduced to the value of facing my issues, small and large, rather than pushing the hard things aside.

And I have benefited immensely from living as my authentic self and even from fumbling around, tripping all over my feelings.

Because I am a feeling being and know that’s okay.

Building Walls vs. Creating Boundaries. What’s the Difference?

Dust-In-Purple-Light-Artistic-l
In college (I am a former drug-addict who dropped out of high-school and finally started college at the age of 29 and I am still not done yet I will have my degree when I am one-hundred) I learned that a lot of the therapeutic process is self-revelation. Asking open-ended questions and allowing people to answer some of their own questions, is valuable. (And why counselors don’t give advice, but help with guided conversation.)
Often, what will happen is people will talk and explore their feelings and come to realizations about their lives and their experiences just by sharing. Sometimes, we have to find our own way through things even if other people can already see them.

I had a  quick conversation on Sunday morning with a friend, and it may have been short one, but it was full. Definitely one of those times where I feel like God gift wrapped a particular sentence just for me knowing it was exactly what I needed to hear at that time.

To sum it up, I mentioned that I feel like I don’t open up to share because I don’t like to let people in too close. I am more of a surface skimmer when it comes to many of my relationships and I prefer to keep most people at a certain, generic distance.

And this friend reminded me that
“Walls are meant to keep people out but boundaries are meant to keep us safe”….

I just stopped talking.
Nothing like spoken truth to shut me up.
It all hit me like a ton of bricks.
I felt excited and surprised.
(Sort of like Doc does in Back to the Future when he has an epiphany and says: “Great Scott!”)

Yes and yesss and all of the yes’s! 
Why had I not made these obvious connections before?
Two things hit me.

1.) “Oh’ my gosh, JUST- like- drug use!!”

*A wall built up around me might be meant to keep me safe but what it does is it ALSO hinders my ability to experience close relationships with people.
It might help to keep the unhealthy or toxic people far away from hurting me but it also keeps out the positive opportunities to form close relationships and friendships.

*JUST LIKE my drug-addiction. JUST LIKE my life of running from pain.
It was all originally meant to keep me safe and to ensure that I wouldn’t have to feel any of the hard things that I was terrified of facing.
I couldn’t feel the negative emotion BUT I ALSO ISOLATED MY LIFE FROM ANYTHING GOOD in the process.
In the end, I COULDN’T FEEL ANYTHING.

2.) Building walls is not the same thing as setting boundaries. 
(repeat.)

All too often I confuse the walls that I build (and knock down and rebuild) with creating and setting healthy boundaries.

Even though both are used to make me feel secure, ultimately, that is not how they both end up working in my life and within my relationships with other humans.

Walls keep me isolated.
Boundaries keep me safe.
Walls keep me hidden.
Boundaries give me freedom.
Walls keep everyone out.
Boundaries keep the right people out.
Walls distance me from everyone.
Boundaries distance me from toxicity.
Walls ask me to stay closed off.
Boundaries push me to open up to my comfort level.
Walls only allow me limited interaction.
Boundaries open the door for limitless connection.
Walls prevent me from experiencing the richness of my relationships.
Boundaries reinforce my self-confidence and urge me to embrace and exhaust the potential in my interactions and connections with others.

There are so many distinct differences between the two and I really *really needed the reminder.

One thing I have learned is that I will *always* have more to learn and I am humbled that I still haven’t forgotten this important piece of information.

And I am grateful to have wise, patient, honest, people in my life.

I Couldn’t Open the Door.

doors
The day after Mother’s Day I heard a knock at my front door.
And then almost immediately, my door bell rang.
I quietly stepped to the front window and peeked out and I heard the doorbell again.

When I looked out, I could see my mom standing on the porch.
I stood there peeking through the blinds and I watched as she nervously shifted her weight back and forth. Her arms were swinging from side to side. She was anxious.
A few seconds passed and she rang the door bell three consecutive times and she stepped back down to the sidewalk. She looked around and then she lit a cigarette.

I really couldn’t bear to watch her facial expressions as she began to realize that I probably wasn’t coming to the door, so I backed up and sat down in my chair.

I felt conflicted as I always do.
I wanted to open the door and then another part of me wanted to hold my breath until I knew she was gone.

My anxiety started to make itself known and I began asking questions.
What was she doing here?
What did she need?
Was she in trouble?
Why didn’t she park in the driveway?
Was she hiding something?
Was she alone? Is she angry?
What if I answer the door?
What kind of person am I?
Why is this so difficult?

I absolutely hated every second of that she stood out there. I hated that she probably didn’t understand why I didn’t just open the door, embrace her, and invite her in for a tour and a cup of coffee.

But I just couldn’t make myself open the door.
I had no idea what would have happened if I did and that pretty much sums up the extent of our entire relationship from my birth up to this point.
I have never had any idea what was going to happen next.
(I would like you to meet reason number one why I battle with anxieties, control, and balance issues as an adult.)

Opening the door would be too risky.
She makes me feel unsafe and somehow her presence makes me feel unsure about everything. I know it’s irrational, but that isn’t the point. It feels like I am standing on shaky ground that could crumble beneath me at any given moment. Just because my heart sank as each minute passed that I knew she was standing there doesn’t mean that my head believed that opening the door was a good idea.

This internal battle is a tough one and it really always has been. Since I have been sober boundaries have been an integral part of my sobriety and recovery. I learned how to live a healthy life keeping toxicity at a safe distance.

But while it has made more sense over the years and I have gained more perspective on why my health and well-being is so important to me as a wife and mother, and as a woman in general, it doesn’t mean that it has gotten easier. It is indescribable to have to wrestle with what feels like a natural inclination.

I have tried to take this last month to just allow myself to process the feelings that I have been experiencing, quietly.
I kept how I was feeling between me, and God and I didn’t verbally share until two nights ago. When I finally did (out loud) I cried like a baby, and not because I hadn’t faced the emotions, but because there is something about saying it out-loud that just makes it hard to get out.

My head and my heart may not always agree but that doesn’t mean that either is necessarily wrong. I just have to remind myself that the boundaries that have been put in place are for protection, not to harm anyone.

For me one of life’s toughest lessons has been accepting that right thing is almost always the most difficult option.

This is just one of those situations where all that I can do at this point is remind myself that God is good. He is so good to me.

He has helped me to accept some of the harsh realities that have entered my life and my heart. I do my best not to over-analyze the situation, because I cannot change it.
I don’t spend all of my time worrying or beating myself to death or drowning in guilt anymore.
I have also been given the perspective that I had always sought.
I have the confirmation that I need and while I do doubt my ability to always accept my situation with as much grace as I have been given, I never doubt God’s ability to get me through the things that I face.

I also have hope.
Sometimes when we close a door another door opens.
Other times it is meant to stay shut.
But the best thing about doors?
We have options.

They don’t have to stay closed indefinitely.

You Had Me at Free.

13240153_1360958617254532_5487974668093139628_n 13267775_1360958633921197_4760308561902356476_n

I hit up the annual neighborhood garage sales and came home with this sad little table.
I was looking around the stuff in the driveway and walked past this nightstand. It had a sticker on it that said 10$. Although I thought it would be nice to get rid of the old school one that we had I really didn’t want it bad enough to spend a whopping 10 whole dollars. I saved those buys for things that I knew I ‘had’ to have.
On my way to the car I heard a man shout “If you want that table it’s yours!”
I turned around and I saw a man standing there with his wife next to him, and both of them were laughing. They told me that they *really* didn’t want to move it back into the garage and that If I was willing to take it…it was mine.

So of course I loaded into the car.
And I knew that I could give it a little bit of love.

Boomshakalaka.

Boys Bathroom Project

20160624_16482320160624_16480220160624_19142920160624_191406

This project has kept my ‘spare’ time pretty busy for the last few weeks.
Max is cutting teeth and his napping and sleeping schedule has shifted, and the boys are home for summer, but I have still tried to squish in a couple of the more simple projects on my list.

This is the boys bathroom and I really just wanted to freshen it up. I don’t mind dark wood but it feels heavy because there is so much of it throughout the house. So I decided this would be a good place to get started. I began by sanding and painting the trim, I moved on to the vanity, and sanded and painted the closet doors and updated all of the hardware.

I also took the brown doors away to the land of the unwanted stuff, (the garage) and replaced them with more modern, white doors. Still have one to hang but it looks and feels better already.

I am always so surprised at how the small tweaks and changes can make such a big difference. I really like the way white feels. It is lighter and somehow makes the space feel less drab and claustrophobic.

And although sanding and painting is hard work it always relaxes me. I have found it to be therapeutic. It seems to be one of the only hobbies that I have, aside from reading, where I am able to clear and quiet my mind and not think about anything whatsoever.
And I really like seeing the results. It is always rewarding in the end.

Happily moving onto the next project which according to the messy plan in my head will be the upstairs hallway. I have always meant to get to that part of the house but we haven’t painted since we bought the house 8 years ago.

I am grateful that I have found hobbies that keep me busy and help me to relax. I encourage you, if you are reading this and are sober or in recovery, to try new things! Find some things that you connect with and that help you to enjoy being with yourself, and that can help you to relax or decompress.

It doesn’t matter if they are not as common as other people’s hobbies. The best part is that there are so many options! Get out there and try some new things.

God Has It Covered. Blended & Blessed.

My son barely knew his biological father and to this day, doesn’t remember him.
Despite those facts I still do not speak badly of or write negative things about him.

I will just keep it vague and simple.
He was young. I was young.

We were both on our way to being addicted and were both irresponsible, immature and selfish little humans.

And neither of us were prepared for parenthood.

But I changed.
He didn’t.
End of story.

There was a time where I wasn’t able to function because this particular part of my story filled me with the kind of rage that overflowed and infected every area of my life. The hatred that I had for him weighed me down and hindered my ability to focus on anything else besides my self-loathing.

I spent far too many years walking around like a zombie; confused, and wounded and for a long time, I didn’t understand. I felt betrayed, abandoned, and disrespected, but mostly frustrated.

As each year came and went, my anger continued its’ transition and eventually turned into bitterness and resentment. Those feelings held so much power over who I was as a person and they played a part in my self-destructive patterns.

It took me a really long time to heal from the pain that I experienced being a single, teenage mother.
I had held those negative feelings so closely to my heart and I did that because I thought that to forgive meant that he was given a free pass, and that his behavior would be excused.

It also took me an equal amount of time to admit that I too had a part in the story, and that I had the power to change how this whole thing could turn out for my child.

After I got sober and entered recovery, I finally felt like I could see a different picture.
I realized that in order to give my son the whole, complete, emotionally stable mother, that he deserved, I had to get to a place where I could embrace a new perspective on an old hurt.

I realized that people make choices and their choices usually have nothing to do with us.
Most often they are a reflection of their own character and their poor choices usually stem from their own personal struggles, bad habits, and strongholds that they have yet to acknowledge or conquer.

I leaped out of my comfortable place padded with hatred and I forgave.
After those chains that had been trapping me were snapped I had more room to grow.

I allowed myself to move forward and I watched and experienced the Grace that is given freely to us.

I watched as God provided for my son every single step of the way.

When my husband met my son he was four years old.
IMG_3828
And he fell in love with both of us.
He chose to love us both, and he chose to accept us as a package deal-
and even when I sternly said take it all or leave it all, he gently reminded me that I didn’t need to be defensive or protective, even though he understood.
He told me that he would gladly take it all, love it all, and commit to it all.
(And he had no idea what else was headed his way…)

IMG_9248

I have had the privilege to have a front row seat to his selfless love and have watched him live out his commitment to my baby boy for the last ten years.

He has had to maneuver and adjust and learn. He has stretched his own personal boundaries in ways that he never imagined and has pushed himself to new heights as a man and as a human.

There was a lot of work put into this transition in his own life, and it shows in his authentic bond, and the natural relationship that has formed between the two of them.

Next month, my baby will celebrate his fourteenth birthday.
20150814_144951

It is surreal to me, even after a decade of watching them interact. They have created this unique, one-of-a-kind, special, father-son dynamic and this is yet another testament to how amazing choosing sobriety is. It is like the gifts never stop coming.

I am grateful to embrace the emotions and to be able to remember watching their journey together. This is also another representation of the powerful, perfectly played out plans that can only be authored by God.

I just wanted to thank my husband for choosing to step up, and for providing and for offering support, direction, love, compassion, and a great example of what it means to be a father, a husband, and a man.

Happy Father’s Day Zachy.

11060163_1135371303146599_7485557280149677596_n

Detroit Muscle. A novel by Jeff Vande Zande.

51VCucHC1TL._SX331_BO1_204_203_200__21942

I would like to bring some attention to a new novel about addiction called Detroit Muscle.

Written by author Jeff Vande Zande, he brings you the story of 20-year-old Robby Cooper; an OxyContin addict just out of rehab and trying to put his life back together. In the end, it is a story of triumph over addiction.

Here’s what people are saying:

“You will be drawn into his fictitious world and will easily resonate with all of the subtly placed topics weaved throughout Robby’s story. Detroit Muscle touches on the real issues that affect families who are struggling to navigate issues brought upon them by a loved one’s addiction. Things like codependency, generational patterns and struggles, losing and rebuilding trust, facing hard truths, the eventual triumph and hope that come gifted with recovery, and everything in between.”

From what I have read this book has a little something for everyone. It offers a fresh perspective, and shines a light on the very common, human aspects of addiction. It does a really good job at chipping away at many of the preconceived ideas about addiction ad the stigma associated.

If you are interested in learning more, reading reviews, or purchasing this novel, click here.

There is also an incredible, in-depth review published here.

Personally, I like the idea of fiction work relating to addiction.
It seems like a nice change from the norm.

It is always a good idea to gain a new perspective on a subject, especially a complex one that is emotionally strenuous and difficult to understand at times.

I can’t wait to read the rest of this one.

Happy reading, friends.


Amends & Unexpected Blessings.

20160617_233432

When my grandma passed away it hit me hard.

From the time I was a little girl she was my bestie. My one constant. My rock.
But as I got older our relationship changed.

Slowly it became less and less about our inside jokes, the back and forth, the one liners, laughing until we both had tears streaming down our faces, our late night trips to Long John Silver’s where we would dance and ring the bell obnoxiously before we left, or talking about religions, politics, our favorite books, authors, and boys until the wee hours in the morning.

Our dynamic became contingent on strings.
Strings that she desperately tried to take hold of and wanted to control as I dangled them in front of her face to keep the chase alive.
Eventually she ran out ways to help me and she became tired of me sucking her dry of all of her resources and all of her energy.

Because she had become my enabler. 

The first few years of my newly formatted sober life didn’t feel quite right to me and it wasn’t just because I had to push the reset button psychologically and physiologically.

I needed her and I looked to her for everything. I depended on her and I missed her. I felt like one of my body parts was missing and when I looked around I felt like I had abandoned everyone, but most notably, my grandma.

But I just wasn’t ready to dive back into that part of my life.
We had become unhealthy for each other and I didn’t know how to approach integrating my new life with the old one that she represented to me. So I never really did.
Not like she wanted anyway and not like I could have (or should have).
We talked on the phone occasionally and I visited a handful of times and that is where my fear left things.

And then she got sick.
She had struggled for years and she had held on for as long as she could hold on but this time was different.

When I walked into her hospital room that last time I studied her face.
I stood silently next to her for a few minutes, alone.
Those minutes felt like an eternity.
I watched her labored breathing. I studied her face and her hands and her hair.
She opened her eyes one time and made eye contact with me and for that minute, I studied her blue eyes.

And I knew.
I felt her exhaustion and I knew she was tired.
But not just tired, she was ready.

Admittedly, I selfishly panicked as many people do when they suddenly realize there is no time.
There is no more time left to attempt to repair or mend what has been broken.
There wasn’t any more time. I wasted all of the time.

She would not know how much I had missed her and she would never hear me tell her why I felt like I had to stay away.

I still miss her. I live in the same city where she and I made many of the memories I talked about. I drive down the streets that she used to work on and live on, I shop where she used to shop and I run into people who knew her from time to time. I drive past our Long John Silver’s and the corner where her house sat, and I see the fences that she and I painted together.

So of course she crosses my mind every single day.

But here’s where I might lose you.

I talk to her sometimes when I am alone.
I tell her all of the things that I wished I could have been brave enough to tell her when she was still here.

That I was so afraid of what might happen to my life if she were back in it.
That if our relationship began again, I had no idea what that could mean for my sobriety and I was ashamed for feeling that way.
I was embarrassed that I felt weak when it came to letting my family back into my life, as they were and still are my biggest stressors and my number one triggers. They steal that secure, safe feeling that I have found with my life and shake it to the core.
I tell her that I miss her and that I am sorry. So so sorry.

I hope that she knew that I was just trying to be my best self, and nothing I did was to purposefully hurt her.

I look at her old photo albums often and last night after my husband and the boys were asleep I dug them out but I had a plan when I walked into the room. I am currently writing a post about how amazing my experiences were growing up backstage at the community theater. I would watch my grandma and her friends and cast mates rehearse and I met so many amazing people. I was digging for some of the cast photos and my grandma in costume for the post and I found them.

But of course as I sifted through years of memories I couldn’t help but reminisce and I ended up sitting on the floor with photos all around me.

As I was packing the books up I found a stack of papers that had my grandmother’s distinctive writing on them. There were several print-outs from Ancestry dot com (she was adopted so it didn’t surprise me that she had researched her family tree) and it looked like she had jotted down notes on the backside of most of the print-outs.

There was one piece of paper that I held in my hand and studied a little bit longer than I did the others and my eye was drawn to what looked to me to be like two lines that seemed odd; out-of-place and not quite flowing with the rest of the notes.

ALL of the notes that she had written were names and dates, first names, last names, nick names, birth dates, and numbers.  And then -these two lines. The ones that didn’t fit with the rest of the information on the page in any conceivable way that made any sense.

When I read the words “Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on his gentle breast”
I forced myself to exhale and then I smiled and I closed my eyes and I wept.

Not a pretty cry either, a big ole’, thank-you JESUS ugly cry.

I thank God for those words and that I noticed them.
Maybe I noticed them because I was focused and it was quiet in the house, and it was just the right time but I *needed* these words.

It hit me almost immediately that not only were those words out-of-place on the paper, they didn’t match how she spoke or what she talked about, or the music that she listened to.

So I did what I always do when I need a fish bowl of random, but plausible answers:
I asked Google.

The first page of results led me to believe that I Google was on the right track.
Here’s what I discovered:

 Safe in the arms of Jesus,Safe on His gentle breast;
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.
Hark! ’tis the voice of angels
Borne in a song to me,
Over the fields of glory,
Over the jasper sea.Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast;
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe from corroding care,
Safe from the world’s temptations;
Sin cannot harm me there.
Free from the blight of sorrow,
Free from my doubts and fears;
Only a few more trials,
Only a few more tears!

Jesus, my heart’s dear Refuge,
Jesus has died for me;
Firm on the Rock of Ages
Ever my trust shall be.
Here let me wait with patience,
Wait till the night is o’er;
Wait till I see the morning
Break on the golden shore.

 (Lyrics found here)

I don’t really know what else to say, to me, those words answer a thousand questions for me and comfort me. I think it’s best to just leave this one here for now.

Where Are We

....
Our right to bear arms has become more important than baring one another’s burdens.

Picking people apart has trumped picking people up.

Our desire to be right has overridden the importance of doing the right thing.

Our opinions being heard is drowning out the voice of the minorities cries.

Our insistence on speaking to hear ourselves talk has taken precedence over speaking truth.

Justifying hatred for the accused has defeated seeking justice for those who have been wronged.

Our freedom of speech has trampled on the freedoms allotted to others who are our equals.

Romans 12:12~Rejoice in our confident hope. Be patient in trouble, and keep on praying.

I Can’t Have it All.

L01682_10
When I forcefully managed to spit out a very quiet and unsure ‘yes’ in reply to the question:
“Do you want some help?” I may have been bubbling over with reluctance that pressured me to hesitate and accept help with the same apathy that I approached each day with, but I was also really, really, tired.

In addition to the color black representing my level of motivation, I wholeheartedly believed that my only real problem was staying sober for any significant blocks of cumulative time.
I was convinced that if I could figure out how to not do drugs, I would be fine and everything would naturally fall into place.

But that’s not how it went down.

I did try to quit on my own. I really did. From the outside it probably didn’t look like I was putting much effort into life change, but in reality I had tried fixing myself and cleaning up my life at least a dozen times (and failed) . Every single time all that I found was just another bogus, useless thing that I wasn’t good at.

And so I ended up with a long list of weak, fraudulent, and less than dependable tactics that didn’t help me. I had no idea just how weak they were. Not only were they not successful, they didn’t even come close to being strong enough to win the battle that I geared up to fight through every day.

I wanted sobriety.
I wanted a simple, easily applied solution to very complex, deep-rooted problems.
And what I got was a complete rebuild.

This was more than teaching my body not to rely on a scheduled dose of daily narcotics, which I was sort of expecting it all to be about.

This whole thing, (recovery) has been about being able to discern what is a priority in my life, and what isn’t; to be able to decipher where my responsibilities begin and where they end, and to accept what is and to trust and allow what isn’t to float away.

This journey has been really hard. I won’t ever forget the sweat and tears that I put into all of the forgiving, uncovering, accepting, realizing, submitting, and learning.

But despite the work and even after feeling the warmth from the light that had managed to creep in and breathe me back to a real life human being, I still have work to do. I have realized that I am a huge, messy, imperfect, piece of unique work, created by a God who loves me and all of my imperfection so deeply I can’t even comprehend it.

I have also learned that I may not ever have it all at the same time but I have exactly what I need for the season of life that I am in.

Even though I will never be able to remember the things that I have forgotten or that were washed away somewhere out wherever the memories go when they are mixed with Xanax and Budweiser, I can experience and remember the memories that I have made every single day that I have been sober.

And it seems that I can’t stop certain flashes of memories that might *try to forever haunt me. But I can remind myself that those experiences or choices do not make up the sum of who I am today, nor do they have power over how I identify as a mother, as wife, as a friend, a daughter, or, as a strong woman.

And no. I cannot run and hide from the negative emotions that I experience (and I have been told that I cannot throw or hit things either) and I shouldn’t hide under my covers hoping that when I come out everything will be alright. Because in order to experience and allow myself to completely feel the positive, good, amazing, I don’t want to forget this stuff, I have to face the hard things too.

And I also know that I can’t have the blocks of blank, black, dark holes in my memory back. They are there because I relied this mechanism to keep me safe. I consider that a blessing, but I also know that for me that means that I maybe I won’t ever be successful when it comes to recalling some of the real emotions or feelings from some of the better times that I know, actually happened (evidenced by Polaroids likely taken by one of my wonderful amateur photographer grandparents)

But that’s okay.
Because I can’t have it all.

Maybe this is just another puzzling paradox found within the sketchy parameters of addiction recovery.  

Maybe that’s why when we remind ourselves to pause and take it all in,
we can smile even when we think about the fact that we will never (ever) be able to have it all-

because the gifts that this life produces as a result of making healthy choices, show us every single day that we already do.

Hate.

11229900_1151911961492533_9021234160302817178_n

We talk about everything around here and I mean everything.
I take having an open discussion policy pretty seriously in our home and for us, it just works.
My boys know that if they have questions, they can ask them without feeling threatened or nervous. It is so important to me for them to truly learn how to ask for what they want and to ask questions when they have them. I believe that there is a difference between being told what to do and obeying out of fear and doing what is right because you understand why it is right, if that makes any sense.
I simply like them to know the ‘why’ behind the reasons that they make decisions. .

Of course I have answered questions about the terrible things that are featured every evening on ABC’s, World News with David Muir.

And I have briefly explained and have also lectured and talked extensively about hate, and how it ruins everything it touches and how nothing good (and certainly nothing that will bring glory to God) comes from forcing your views on other people’s lives and killing them, or hating them, or picketing them to death if they don’t comply or change to suit your comfort level.

And mother f*ck (hits hands on table) it has only been a few days since I sat my boys down at our kitchen table and explained in a lengthy, very generic, non-specific & age appropriate way what they should do and how they should handle themselves should they ever happen to walk past a human being laying on the ground in a semi-conscious or unconscious state. (It was sort of just a review, but basically, I wanted to hear their thoughts on what the morally sound decision would be.)
And thank gosh they had thoughtful, brilliant, empathetic, sweet, smart, caring, mature, and ethical responses.

And this morning, I found myself again, trying to explain away hate.
Very real, very close-to- home, hatred.
And in case you didn’t already know, you can’t actually do that.

As I tried to speak to these tiny souls that I have the privilege of caring for my throat started to burn and tears welled up in my eyes.
I did my best to take deep breaths as mind scrambled for the easiest words that could help my kids make some sense of this recent tragedy…but it just wasn’t happening.

It is never easy to explain things that you don’t understand or cannot comprehend, and it is not easy to make a child feel that they are safe when you are faking it, because frankly, you don’t feel safe either.

So I just told the truth.

I told my kids that I don’t have any answers would make it make sense because it was a senseless act, and that I have nothing new to say aside from that I am just so so so sorry.
I made sure to tell them that hate has been and always will be a powerful and destructive entity, and it hurts people and that it is responsible for the death and destruction of so many people.

It also breeds like mold.

All day today I couldn’t shake feeling internally conflicted and angry.
I fumed as I scrolled past hateful, righteous, entitled tweets, posts, and comments that even dared mention gun rights, gun laws, or people who happen to be gay’s personal human rights to socialize in public.

I felt angry that I actually have ‘friends’ who I truly don’t know at all. I felt frustrated that I never recognized these qualities before today.

I felt angry that I didn’t have answers for my children and that I didn’t actually feel like I was making them any safer or more secure.

I was furious that I felt helpless and angry that I couldn’t actually ‘do’ anything or make anything better in any way.

I felt angry and like everything that I did or wanted to do or wanted to say all day long was a waste of time in light of what was happening; all of the tears, the pain and anguish, the people searching and waiting for answers, and those who are mourning.

I have been feeling angry that I don’t feel more guilty for being a free, educated, white woman in a country that has offered me every opportunity imaginable. Guilty because I don’t have any real or immediate threat to my life or my well-being. Guilt because I don’t fear for my life every single day because of who I am, for who I love, or for believing in God and sharing my passion for Jesus with others.

I wondered why I didn’t care that the shooter was Muslim, documented, undocumented or wearing a giant bunny costume. I just didn’t care.

And then I felt angry at myself for feeling like praying wasn’t ‘enough’ when I actually believe that it is one of the most powerful tools available.

And tonight, I have been sitting here looking at this cursor blinking for at least an hour.
In silence.

I have been contemplating what I really am doing here and if I am really making any difference whatsoever, anywhere. And even if I am, I can do the math.
My little amount of ‘good’ isn’t making a big enough dent.

And as I sat, I began to realize that it was exactly what hate wants:
Silent people unwilling to do or to feel or to believe in anything.

-It wants us to stop teaching our kids about love and peace.
-It purposefully mistreats, abuses, and marginalizes.
-It’s goal is to drag us down and take our light with it.
-It wants us to judge and label and tear down and avoid.
-It wants us to stop encouraging each other and mentoring and loving other people.
-It wants us to stop believing in hope and change and unity and equality.
-It divides, it draws lines in the sand and in lines, and on buses and in restaurants.
-It gasses people and burns them alive and skins them and beheads them.
-It blames and accuses and gossips and argues and trolls.
-It invades locker rooms, and bathrooms.
-It provokes us and moves us to boycott companies.
-It tells us we’re standing for what we believe in and that right is more important than kind.
-It convinces us that accepting is synonymous with approving.
-It ensures us that our way is the only way.
-It injects itself into even the most well-meaning hosts, and manifests into something that grows out of control and then, it moves on.
Hearts are then left completely void of the ability to feel and no one seems to feel the impact that hate has anymore and in the end we will have justified hate by using religion as a scapegoat to under gird naivety, fear, ignorance, and the unknown.

The only choice that we really have is to choose to believe that each one of us really can make a difference. We have to keep believing. Alone we might be going against an impossible tide but together we can move mountains.

And for myself personally, I have to seek God for the peace and security that my bones were aching for throughout the day today. I have to pray for patience to deal with the inconsiderate, apathetic people who actually buy the crap that hate is selling and I have to cling to my God who tells me in John 1:5: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

So please.
Let this terrible hate crime not split us apart and push us backward even more than before.
Let it piss us off and give us incentive to rise up together and to stay strong in our beliefs and in our knowledge that hope is real.

Goodnight world.

The One With Glitter is Perfect.

Ribbet collage

Maybe I am just the only adult around who doesn’t actually like seeing their first name enough to see it plastered anywhere besides, well….
repeatedly scribbled in my Lisa Frank notebooks or maybe my journal with the cute little pad-lock and mini-key.

I am in the minority because I am interested in buying products geared toward adults that *don’t* hold, contain, store, or open alcohol.

I really am just not understanding the connection between the alcohol obsessed culture that we live in and also mass producing products for adults that have our first names painted, or stenciled, engraved, glittered or lighted directly on the actual product.

I am definitely not cool enough for products such as these.

I missed the boat and am now floating around somewhere in minority-ville, with all of the other people who have multiple hobbies and interests and zero interest in drinking.

And for the record I don’t hate people who drink.
I also don’t love glitter but I don’t hate people who do.
I don’t even hate paint or stencils or my first name.

But maybe I am somewhere out there in the land of the uncool, and I am sick of the marketing that is obviously directed toward the younger crowd.

As a 32-year-old mother of 3 young people I can say with a fair amount of certainty that those cute little shot glasses with names printed on them…aren’t geared toward people like myself or my husband who already know we like tequila and who also *love* our first names but don’t actually need it written directly on our shot glasses.

They are for younger people who think drinking is so cool, almost as cool as like a second job or a fun hobby. People who are still young enough to be okay with having their first name printed on actual things that they own in the cabinets of their apartments. These cheesy alcohol holders also make cheap gifts that are most definitely going to be utilized and gracefully accepted without any worry if the gift will be liked or not.

But maybe it would be so cool to see marketing that didn’t include pushing the tired agenda.

That same tired agenda that perpetuates the allure of drinking, that makes it seem so cute and fun, like the weekend obsession and social crutch that it has become.

Maybe it would be nice to see other things equally obsessed about shoved through the eyes & down the throats of our youth.

Every single person who I personally know who can also handle the occasional margarita with their dinner or a few beers as they grill something or watch something sporty, (or whatever responsible drinking looks like)

does not also own a small cabinet full of shot glasses with their names painted on them in glitter.

We can just go ahead and file this one with the complaints that I have about the ridiculous wine obsession that has now become the norm, all of the “I don’t get drunk I get awesome” slogans printed on things, and the influx of other sad & popular products inspired sleazy branding similar to Urban Outfitter’s tactics.

And the real problem stems from the greed of the morally bankrupt peddlers in charge of this stuff, who are more than okay with capitalizing on young people anyway. The apathetic attitude that has developed regarding issues related to substance use and abuse  is evident by the hate people spew on the internet every day and the very real lives that are being cut short out here in the real world.

I will just continue believing that I am super cool in my sun-glasses that I cannot drink anything out of, that don’t in fact, have my name painted directly on the outside of them, but are equally as “bad-ass.”

20160605_150454

>
%d bloggers like this: