Friday, March 27, 2015

God Winked

Let's see if I remember how to do this.

This picture was taken about 10 years ago when we lived on the boat. It was right after 9/11--oh my God! That was almost 14 years ago!--, the cap'n and I had been docked at Gangplank Marina when the attacks happened.  They shut down the Potomac for about 3 weeks and when they finally opened it up, the cap'n said, "To hell with staying in the Bull's Eye Zone, I'm going to Fantasy Fest in Key West before I die."

Two weeks later, we were on a mooring in Garrison Bight, Key West. If you know anything about traveling on a sailboat, you know we hauled ass!

So here is Stanley, the killer bichon (he wasn't blind yet.) looking about as trepidatious as I was about donning a mermaid suit with two tiny triangles to cover my bodacious ta-ta's and a tight mermaid's tail skirt and wandering around with a bunch of drunks all night. (That would be me in the mermaid suit, not Stanley. And if you've ever been to Fantasy Fest, you know I was way over dressed.)

Yes, my costume was giving me cause for concern, but that wasn't the real reason for my trepidation.  For the longest time, maybe ever since I started drinking, I dreaded the thought of these kind of events.  I used to stare in bemusement at people who got so enthused about concerts and big holiday parties, and all-inclusive vacations.  These same people would wander into work on Monday morning and laugh about how drunk they got and what fun they had.

That was  never me.  My stomach was always cold with dread before these occasions, and afterwards...well, I didn't come into work laughing about what some other drunken idiot did at the office Christmas party. I was usually the drunken idiot.

My drinking was always wrapped up in worry and shame.  Maybe that should have been my first clue that maybe I shouldn't be drinking.

Oh, I had fun, but only after I had enough drinks in me to make it seem like fun.

There weren't enough drinks in all the bars on Duval Street to make Fantasy Fest Night fun.. I was pretty much wasted by 7:00 pm, which is when I thought I'd pull one of those drunken girl tricks.  I guess I decided that the cap'n was ogling too many of the bare but highly decorated and much younger ta-tas of the other female revelers. So I thought, I'll just step away for a minute and see if he misses me. Not a good idea in the shoulder to shoulder and other sweaty parts to other sweaty parts press of humanity that is Key West during Fantasy Fest.

This little mermaid was soon swept away by the crowd.

I didn't see the cap'n or Stanley again until 4:00 am. Of course, the cap'n swore he never moved from the spot where I left him.  Then we had the photos developed--that was a long time ago, wasn't it? Suffice it to say Stanley ended up with a lot more beads than I did and most  of the photos depict a decidedly worried Stanley trapped between two masses of silicone.

We said good-bye to Stanley last May, he was nineteen and blind and even the mild Mexican winters were getting hard on his bones, but he still loved me ferociously. I used to comfort myself with the fact that I couldn't be all bad if Stanley still loved me.

God Wink Time. ( I bet you wondered if I'd ever get around to it, huh?)

1:00 a.m day before yesterday. I can't sleep. It's been my 53rd birthday for an hour and I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. I'm here in Mexico all alone while the cap'n is stateside working. I think I suffer from Birthday and Holiday PTSD from all those years when the kids forgot to call me, or relied on the fact that they could forget to call but tell me that they had, knowing I'd be too drunk to be sure.

All of a sudden my phone on the nightstand makes that little "brrrinnngg" sound it makes when I get a notification and I grab for it in the dark to see who might be sending me my first Birthday Greeting.

Up pops the picture above. Nobody sent it and I had no idea it was even on my phone. I obviously didn't have that phone 14 years ago. And the computer it was stored on died two months ago. I have posted the same pic on this blog I think, and on the old blog I used to write about cruising, but I haven't seen the pic in a long time. Not since Mr. Stan died.

I guess he was letting me know I wasn't as alone as I thought I was. Oh geez, here I go crying again.

I've been receiving a few God Winks that I should get back to writing this blog,  So here I am. Not much has changed in the last half year.

But I'm still not drinking and that's pretty major.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Laughter Everafter: R.I.P. Robin Williams

Robin Williams died yesterday, and the world mourns. He was a comic, an award winning actor, a famed personality, a genius.

I am none of those, but I am what he was. I am an alcoholic.

He took his own life and the world is left to ask why. Why would a person with so much feel that there is so little to live for. I can answer that question, partially I think even though I never knew the man, I was not privy to his inner most secrets. But I know some of his demons, one in particular.

Robin Williams and I marched/march through this life in mourning, we have lost a great love of our life. Not lost it really, it’s right there in front of us, laughing and dancing and looking every bit as lovely as it always has. And we could have it, we could fall back into its waiting arms like a soldier returning to his lover after the war.

We, the recovered, the survivors, the valiant, are not supposed to say that we grieve what we have lost. I do. Grieve it. Miss it. Mourn it. I loved….love booze. And I am fiercely jealous of those who know how to treat it, that don’t disrespect it, that keep it in its rightful place.

I never could do that, no matter how hard I try. And I tried, just as Robin did, many times. You don’t go backwards in relationships though, you never really start over, off on the new foot so to say…you just put new shoes on the same ugly feet and they carry you right back where you left off.

There are two choices for people like me, we can fall back into the arms that are always at our back waiting to catch us when we fall. And for a moment we can find relief only to emerge from those arms disheartened and dishonored for having tarnished and shamed our always tenuous victory.

Or we can march on, but not alone, because we are not the only one’s grieving. We are not the only one’s standing at the door of the ballroom watching our love dance with everybody else but us. We are not the only ones that have to turn our back and walk away when it gets so close we can smell its perfume and hear its sweet song.

I, a recovered alcoholic, am not supposed to write love letters to my enemy. But booze is not the enemy, my addiction, my love, my damn predisposition, is the enemy. Don’t blame booze. My enemy is myself.

Robin Williams fought alcoholism for thirty years, some people will say he gave up. I will say here that I think he went down fighting.

Sometimes the enemy wins.

This blog is one more weapon in my own defense. My vow not to let the flag fall.  An insurance policy against cashing in.

Because I trust you not to let me.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

A Survivor's Story

I remember my parents pulling up to the drive-through window of this state line bar, it was the last day of our vacation and we were on that endless drive home, forty miles left to go.  They bought a six pack and then sat in the parking lot drinking beer and smoking cigarettes while we whined in the backseat about the heat, the drive, the smoke, our siblings' encroachment on our space.  They drank two beers each and then they started the car and drove the remaining bone weary miles home.  It was the 70's and our parents remained doggedly uninterested about the effects of  drinking and driving and second-hand smoke. 

I always wondered about the why of those beers in that hot dusty parking lot. Why didn't they just keep driving and wait until they were in the swamp cooler comfort of our own home?  My best guess is that my parents were bidding a last sad farewell to the carefree, careless days of vacation, or maybe they were drowning their sorrows of leaving the cool, verdant mountains for the vast stretch of nothingness in which we lived.  They needed that one last taste of sky blue waters.

I rarely remember my parents going to a bar or beer joint in our hometown, there were the random and sparse evenings out with friends and maybe an occasional Friday night at the VFW, but, by no means, would Mom and Dad be considered regulars at any of the local watering holes.

But vacations were different.  Every day when the heat descended and the fish quit biting the Hickey clan loaded into "Old Blue", our station wagon, and headed to town where Mom and Dad would settle into a duct tape scarred vinyl booth at a local beer joint and us kids would hit the nearest general stores with our sweaty, stink bait scented dollar bills burning holes in our jean shorts.

Eventually, money spent, we slunk back into the beer joint and threw ourselves, one by one, into the booth and commenced pouting the appropriate amount of time required to drive our parents to the desperation of throwing coins at us for the pool table or pinball machine.  They gladly paid the ransom for just a few more minutes of dark, smoky respite from the endless tangle of kids and fishing lines that defined our family vacations.

Scarred floors.  Barmaids with terrifying hairdos and sassy mouths.  Sitting at the bar with my ice cold bottle of Dr. Pepper.  Spinning bar stools. A painted lady on the floor at Joe's Place in Cimmaron, New Mexico.  A creepy  two-headed calf with beady wall-eye stares in some nameless bar in Red River.

My parents kicked back in a booth, laughing over cold beers and a smoldering ashtray.  My mom with a bandanna in her hair and rolled up jeans.  So young.

I treasure those memories, they are as much a part of me as blonde hair, green eyes and my inbred, deservingly under appreciated, Hickey sardonic drollness.

I miss those places.  I can't but help miss them.

 But miss them is all I can do.

When I rolled by that bar on my own last stretch of vacation a few days ago, I felt a rueful melancholy smile lift the corner of my mouth.  I had a kid stretched out in my backseat asleep, my grandchild, and I would no more think of pulling into that parking lot and drinking beers than driving on home...not lately, any way.

I drove those remaining empty miles to my hometown to drop the grandkid off and to spend the night with my oldest son.  Later that afternoon I headed to Walmart to restock my supply of Diet Pepsi.  As I was pulling two liters off the shelf by the gross, an older woman turned her cart into the aisle.  We glanced at each other and then took longer looks.

"Mary Kay, isn't it?" she asked.

For my whole life I have been running into this woman and she always calls me by my "baby" name and she always says the same thing.

"I remember when we lived across the street from your parents.  Your mom and I were both pregnant with you girls.  Such good times."

I nodded.  I've heard it so many times before but I never tire of hearing it.  We exchanged the usual.
"Where is ?"
"How is ?"
"Can you believe how this town has changed? And not for the better."

Skirting, skirting, skirting.


"We lost Jolene, you know?" she asks.

I nod.  I did know.

"She drank a lot."

I nod again.

"I did too.  For a long time," I say.  It is the only meager comfort I can offer, my clumsy attempt to tell her she wasn't the only mother who lost a daughter. It wasn't her fault.

She patted me on the shoulder.

"It happens."

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Getting Closer Every Day

When they were little boys, my boys thought I hung the moon and dipped it in sprinkles just for them.  And I would've if I could've.  My favorite Mother's Day Memory is the Mother's Day that they all jumped on their bikes early in the morning and headed over to the nearby miniature golf course and returned with muddy bouquets of iris's that they presented to me with pride, like future car thieves handing their momma the keys to a pink cadillac.

Then things happened.  They became teenagers. I got divorced. They became resentful. I became swamped with guilt.

So I left.  Not physically, not at first anyway. I dove into a bottle of Jack Daniels and didn't emerge for 20 years.

My boys no longer think I hung the moon and dipped it in sprinkles just for them.  But I would, if I could.

I came across one of my many sporadic journals that I kept before I started blogging here.  I thought writing down all those arguments about why I should stop drinking myself to death and keeping them to myself would help, but it didn't.
In one of them, written in 2009, I believe, there is a Mother's Day Entry.

I cried when I read it.

It must have been written early in the morning because I was still boosting myself up and making excuses about why my kids might not call me, how difficult it is to get hold of me, how they're boys and boys just don't think about those things...blah, blah, blah...But I wasn't in total denial, I knew that booze was the captain of the ship that was steering a course further and further from my kids.  I could see that I was totally losing sight of land and them.  They wouldn't be able to throw me a lifeline, even if they wanted to.

I don't remember if the oldest and youngest called me or not that Mother's Day.  I know the middle one did not because he did call me a few days later to apologize about not calling me, he had a good excuse, he'd been in jail.

That Mother's Day was the turning point for me.  I made a vow, that no matter what, by the next Mother's Day my relationship with my kids would be better, I would start doing the necessary legwork and healing that was required.

Was I sober by the next Mother's Day?  No.  But I'd started this blog and I was heading that way.

This is the message that I received on fb today from that middle child.  He doesn't have an excuse this year, he's in a much better place too.

Hey mom thank you for all the love that u have gave us as kids and u continue to give us as adults. And all the patience and understanding that you showed us.. no matter what direction life may take us you will always be our mother and i know im not alone when i say i take great pride in calling you my mom. I love you mom. Happy mothers day!

I called all of my boys yesterday to let them off the hook, I am still hard to get hold of, one more barrier I need to break down.  Am I where I want to be?  No, I've let myself chicken out of facing the hard things with my youngest, we're still skirting around the issues, keeping our coats buttoned tight. (Thank you to Amy, my friend, over on Soberbia for that image and a great book recommendation)  But I'm heading to his house in Texas to dig up some bones and rattle them as soon as I get back to the states in a few weeks.


Am I where I want to be?



But I'm closer and that's a hell of a lot better than farther.

(BTW, Paul, if you read this, that middle son is the one that landed in my lap all of a sudden.)


Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Ten Things You Gotta Love About Sobriety

The cap'n has been buzzing around all morning.

 Busy, Busy Bee!

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

I want to swat him, because I'm still all fuzzy headed and laying about in bed and just spent 45 minutes looking up Foghorn Leghorn quotes so I could write something really snappy to one of my friends on the Moderation Management List.  I came up, I say, I came up with nothing, so I wasted, I say, wasted 45 freakin' minutes!!  Why in the hell did I go looking to Foghorn Leghorn for inspiration this morning?

"Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!"  Goes the cap'n.

"It's amazing what you can get done when you're not hungover," says he.

"Preachin' to the choir," says I.  (And what the fruck do you think I've been trying to tell you for the last three years. But, oh yeah, I forgot, you were never hungover.  That's what you kept telling me anyway.  I guess now you know the difference)

I guess you've figured out that the cap'n is behavin' lately (a week) and that we must have had a "come to Jesus" meeting. (Yes, we did).  But more about that later.  He's decided to "essentially" quit drinking. (Can I get a collective eye roll on that?).  But he's doing pretty good so far.







He's out there digging up Coconut Trees and I'm still laying in bed.

He reminds me of what those first sober mornings felt like.

Like a Fucking Miracle.

And then I wandered over to Mrs. D's Blog this morning between my Foghorn Leghorn expeditions, and she's yammering away, lah-di-dah, zippity do-dah, and all that shit, about why she loves sobriety. 

And I said, "Fuck it, I say, fuck it, if you can't beat'em you might as well join 'em. Now listen up, ya hear, listen up."

Why I Love Sobriety:

1.)  I'm still alive.

2.)  I'm laying in bed all fuzzy headed and lazy and I can't blame drinking.  I haven't been able to         blame my drinking for anything for almost 3 whole years.

3.)  I'm a damn inspiration.  Yep, I can't deny it, I am.

4.)  There are now people who know me who never saw me drunk, they don't even know that I used to drink.  They just think I'm an uptight sober person.  Hallelujah!

5.)  I remember every single thing that happened last night.

6.)  I haven't vomited in almost 3 years, which means I haven't had to look at, smell, or clean up vomit in 3 years.

(The cap'n just reported that he's already dug up 9 Coco Trees.  He's a regular Johnny Coconut Tree)

7.)  Sober sex.  It's just easier, quicker and cleaner and a lot less theatric.  (Addition to today's "To Do" List:  Burn all those old videos.)

8.)  I can make plans for later on tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, Christmas...because I can depend on me to be present and accountable.

9.)  I'm no longer worried about qualifying for the liver transplant list.

Drum Rollllllllllllll!!!!!!!

10.)  I love myself and life again, with all of our foibles, ups and downs, ins and outs, darks and lights, hards and easy's, goods and bads, happy and sads.  I love that I feel it and live it.

Thank you, I say, thank you, God!

Sunday, March 30, 2014

A Much Needed Swift Kick In The Ass

After a week or five of feeling sorry for myself, I reacquainted myself with a blog written by a guy I went to high school with.  Rocky is no longer really battling cancer, he is surrendering to it with more valor and wit than I could ever hope to master.  Please don't skip over this.  We all need this wake-up call to go out and have the best damn day we can manage.  Today.

Terminal Velocity

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Real Life Is Just Real Life

Thank you guys for your kind words, it was so good to hear your sweet voices again.

I don't know what is up with me lately, I'm feeling so apathetic about the whole "support thing." I'm not drinking, not thinking about drinking, not wanting to drink.  It's just that when I think about blogging or posting on my message boards I just feel "Ugh".

Did this happen to any of you?  I know if I were in AA they would probably say this is a harbinger of a relapse.  But I don't think so.  I think it is a step in recovery.  I watched my brother move away from AA after a few years and he's never drank again.  He just lives a normal life without meetings and without drinking.

So do any of the rest of you ever say to yourself, "I am just so done with all of this recovery crap?"

Here's what I think is happening.  When I quit drinking, I filled up my days to the brim.  You know how that is, you're so afraid if you have a second to spare, you'll pick up a bottle.  But now I want some of those moments to spare.  I want to do some other things.  Or I want to do absolutely nothing.

I'm to the point I've got to give up something, but everything seems too important to give up.

But here's what I need to remind myself, even if I give up this blog, or posting every day on the message boards, it doesn't mean I have to give up the friends I made here or there.  Some of you have become a part of my life as a whole, not just the fraction that is my recovery.

On the up point, I have created another blog, it's not about recovery but it's about living a sober life down here south of the border.  I haven't published it yet, I'm still working on the first posts.  I'll post a link here when it's ready if any of you want to become a part of that part of my life.

And I'm still working on my book, or trying to work on it, except I keep letting all of these other things I've gotten myself involved in conveniently interrupt my work on it.

Or maybe that's just another excuse for not getting done what I need to get done.