Why Is Moderation A Dirty Word?

I recently responded to a post on another sober blog about moderation.   One of the followers of that blog had written in and said that she was still struggling with the idea of giving up drinking forever and she was asking if moderation was possible. I responded, of course I did, that I do know people who moderate successfully, but it takes a lot of work and I'm not convinced that it ever becomes mindless or as unfettered as quitting all together.

My response that moderation was possible for some people was a lone soldier standing in a battlefield ringing with war cries of, "Moderation is a waste of time, impossible, and dangerous!"

A few days later, I read another comment from a follower who said that she had been abstinent for 8 years and then tried drinking. As we so often hear, and we know so often happens, she fell right back down the hell hole and was having a harder time climbing out than she'd ever had before.

I replied to her comment, "Thank you for sharing this. After five years of not drinking, I need to hear these stories to keep me on the path I'm on." Because, I do believe, for me, that trying drinking or even moderation again, would be dangerous. After all, I had started to exhibit signs of physical dependence and kindling.

I was informed my comment was awaiting "moderation." Now, I don't remember my comments needing moderation on this blog before, maybe they always had required this, but I don't think so. Maybe the blogger decided to moderate all comments on the post because the discussion of moderation is such a controversial subject in the sober world. It shouldn't be. Maybe my comment was moderated because I said that moderation is possible for some people. It is.

I don't think discussing moderation is dangerous, I think it is necessary. All of us tried it, for way too many years. On our own. Many of us avoided reaching out for help from others because we were told too often that our only solution is giving up alcohol completely forever, no matter the level of drinking we were worried about. If we were worried at all about our drinking, that must mean we have a problem and we should quit.

I'm calling bullshit on that.

So instead of reaching out to ask for help, when we first became concerned, we waited until we had become so lost and so embroiled in our habit and maybe so addicted, that, for many of us,  it did become impossible, a waste of time and downright dangerous to try and moderate.

See, I do believe moderation can be all those things, but not in the beginning, not when we first become concerned, not the first time we say, "I need to drink less."

Yes, some of us, even in the beginning, may find that moderation is an impossible goal for us. But wouldn't it be better to realize that sooner than later?

For some people, people like me, attempting moderation is the only step they can take and when you tell them it is a waste of time, that quitting all together is the only step available to them, it keeps them from taking any steps. And, to me, that is more dangerous than attempting moderation and failing.

This guy says it a whole lot better than me.

Perverse Pleasure

If you asked me what I love about sobriety, I would say, the starkness and solitude of it. If I was going to paint a word picture of that starkness, it would be a shaft of winter sunlight piercing through a window with plain cotton curtains onto a weathered gray table with a centerpiece of fruit. Or, a still as a church, snow covered prairie with a lone tree stripped of its leaves and one lonely set of footprints.

For so long I feared that starkness, it is exactly what I didn't want. I wanted whirling lights and ringing laughter and the never ever alone-ness of drinking.

But then, the laughter became hollow and the lights dizzying and I found myself so many times alone in a crowd. At least I thought I was. Was I the only one that had begun to dread the life I thought I loved?  Was I the only one who kept drinking long after I wanted to stop?

Was I the only one scared to death to imagine a life stripped down and myself naked?

I received this comment the other day from a friend of mine who read my book:

"I didn't start reading your book because of my drinking, but you got me thinking

maybe I should be thinking about it. Your description of how you are
seeing the world sober, was an eye opening reminder for me. I have
never been one for New Years Eve partying because I take a perverse
pleasure in waking up with a clear head when the rest of the world has
a hangover."

I agree. There is a certain perverse pleasure in knowing I am one of a hardy but small population who is sober when the rest of the world seems to be gleefully drunk or not-so-gleefully hungover.

There is a special-ness. Even a superior-ness. As though I've been chosen. 

But I know that's not true, because I know everyone that suffers can make the choice. 

We are not chosen. 

We choose...

The perverse and seldom achieved pleasure.

We choose...

Serenity.

I Think I'll Start Drinking Again...When Wine Comes From Cows

The other night at abs chat we had a familiar conversation. One of our members who has recently decided to quit drinking forever isn't enjoying it too much. She's depressed, she says, when she thinks of never, ever drinking again.

Some of us old timers did a virtual nod in commiseration.

We all race to type in, "That's why we don't say the word forever. We just take it that proverbial one day at a time."

It got me to thinking about what kind of circumstances would lead me to drink again. Then I got a little too excited and happy thinking about funerals and terminal diagnosis's so I quit thinking in that direction. 

I finally decided I could try drinking again when it held as much allure for me as MILK.

I don't hate milk. I just haven't drank it for about forty years. No, not even when I was pregnant or breast feeding, I just doubled up on the calcium supplement which might explain why my oldest son is in the medical journals as the youngest person with kidney stones. ;0

See, I could imagine visiting Wisconsin and not drinking milk, even though it is known worldwide for its milk.

I would have no problem going to a milk tasting and spitting out my "taste" before I moved on to the next frothy bottle of milk.

And, I'd have no problem taking a sip of milk from a wedding toast and then dumping the rest of it in a potted plant.

When I get to that level of disinterest in booze, then I might try drinking again.

I don't see it happening anytime soon.

My VACI

I always forget how busy this time of year is for me down here in Mexico. I'm running around like a crazy woman with the other "Elves" trying to make a lot of last minute jingle to buy toys for our kids down here. The toy drive was the first life line thrown to me when I was trying to get to shore while drowining in an ocean of booze.  It became my VACI, or Vital Absorbing Creative Interest as SMART Recovery calls it. I call it the first thing I fell in love with more than booze.  I wish I could say it happened on first sight and that the moment I was put in charge of providing a little Christmas joy to 800+ kids, I threw away the bottle, but it never happens that way. I stumbled through the first couple of years and a couple of drunk fiasco fundraisers before I finally chose the kids over the bottle. This Christmas will be my fifth sober Christmas.

An extra two hundred, or so, special needs kids landed in our laps a week ago and I've been scrambling to find funds for their toys. Luckily I had three secret Santas step forward immediately to cover the cost of their toys. It's funny down here. If someone stood up and said, "I hate kids" they'd get understanding nods even though most people don't hate kids. However, if I stood up and said, "I hate dogs!" I'd be stoned at the village square at midnight, then burned as a witch. Dogs win out over kids every time.

We spent yesterday down in the hot bowels of Centro Merida bargaining for toys in sweltering upstairs toy departments.  If you ever want proof that cold molecules are heavier than warm molecules, come to Merida and go upstairs in one of the cramped, clear a shelf every time you turn around with your wrecking ball of a purse, shop.  Then stay up there, slipping around on your own sweat, for three or four hours while the owner and his "elves" run around to the other fifty shops he owns trying to find five hundred identical toys because we've learned over the years that having a variety of toys can incite a riot among blood thirsty parents. Believe me, all the air conditioning stays downstairs.

Why do I continue to do it?  Our little village is definitely more prosperous than when I started coming here seven years ago and most parents can now buy toys for their kids because of the jobs that the growing expat community has brought. (BTW, before we get in a conversation that I've had way too often with the Grinches down here, Santa Claus had come to Mexico way before I got here, and our kids had to wonder why he was leaving them off his list.) But there are still a handful of kids that are very poor and it is that handful that I try to remember when I am so doggone sick of doing this.  I think of a little boy or girl that has waited and dreamed all year long for the night that they get a toy, just like every other kid in the village.

Oh yeah, it also keeps me sober.

So this started out as a whiny post about why I'm too friggin' drained to post lately, because we all know how strenuous lifting fingers up and down on a keyboard can be, but as usual, once I start complaining, I build momentum, like a fart with a ferocious tail-wind..

Abs Chat Tonight!

Abs Chat is focused on abstaining from alcohol—on a permanent basis,
long-term, or even for a shorter period of time (like a 30!).
Everyone is welcome to attend, and to participate, but we won't be
discussing moderation techniques or plans. For discussions of
moderate drinking, we invite you to participate in the Monday Night
Book Chat or the Tuesday Night Online Meeting.
So if you're abstaining, planning to, curious about it, wondering
whether it would be a good idea, or just want to hang out for sober
fun, stop by!
See you there! http://www.moderation. org/chat/

** PLEASE NOTE: Abs Chat will be held in the Abs Chatroom. When
logging in, use the drop-down box to select MM_Abs_Chat. If you wind
up in the wrong room, you can move between rooms by clicking on the
room list to the right of the chatroom screen. **

Moderation Management Abs Chat Tonight

Hey all!

There was a discussion yesterday on Time and the Bottle on reaching out for additional help through online message boards and forums.  These venues were and continue to be an integral part of my journey.

I know I've mentioned several times that I am an active member of Moderation Management and it's sublist: mmabsers.  But I don't think I've ever mentioned that we have an abs chat every Wednesday night.  It's very informal and it's a great opportunity to get some real time support from people that have been sober for an extended period.  Stop on by and bounce your questions, fears, and problems off of them.

 I am facilitating the chat tonight and I'd love to see some new faces from the sober blogosphere!

9 PM Eastern, 8 Central, 7 Mountain, 6 Pacific

Abs Chat is focused on abstaining from alcohol—on a permanent basis,
long-term, or even for a shorter period of time (like a 30!).
Everyone is welcome to attend, and to participate, but we won't be
discussing moderation techniques or plans. For discussions of
moderate drinking, we invite you to participate in the Monday Night
Book Chat or the Tuesday Night Online Meeting.
So if you're abstaining, planning to, curious about it, wondering
whether it would be a good idea, or just want to hang out for sober
fun, stop by!
See you there! http://www.moderation.org/chat/
** PLEASE NOTE: Abs Chat will be held in the Abs Chatroom. When
logging in, use the drop-down box to select MM_Abs_Chat. If you wind
up in the wrong room, you can move between rooms by clicking on the
room list to the right of the chatroom screen. **

Other online forums include:

Women for Sobriety

SMART Recovery

Soberistas

eAA forum

I am sure there are more out there, the important thing is that you find one that is a good fit for you.  The blogging world is populated with amazing and compassionate people.  But if you find, especially in times of weakness or crisis, that you need some real time support, you may find it at one of these online recovery communities.

Whatever it takes!!

Happy Mother's Day

Seems like I start every Mother's Day by going back.  Back to that last one before I quit drinking. When I worried whether my boys would even call, thinking that I deserved it if they didn't.  They always called.  I never felt like I deserved it.

Yesterday, I got this facebook message from my youngest, Matt, in response to a message I sent him about my concern for him and my daughter-in-law who are sergeant's in the Air Force. (For a little bit of my history with Matt, click here. A Day For Remembering )

Hey mom. .... I love you more than you'll ever know. As far as this situation goes I wish America would figure it out before it's too late. Id rather go fight them there and have civilian casualties there than here. If some thing doesn't happen it is going to end up on our door steps. But all that bs aside I love you and don't tell you enough and I'm glad you worry about me.

Yes, I'm bragging a little.  I deserve it.

P.S. For all my fellow mothers out there who are feeling undeserving out there today, don't give up on them, but most of all, don't give up on yourself. Love you, Kary

2013 Tribute to You

 

My fellow MM member, Heidi, shared this beautiful blog written by Jen Louden on the Moderation Management message board today and it reminded me so much of all of you in this wonderful, giving, tenacious, sober blogger, message board, chatroom, AA meeting, rehab... world of ours.

Thank you for holding my hand and not letting go.

A 2013 Tribute to You

I see all the times you followed your desires, without guilt or second-guessing or demanding a particular outcome. Even if only for a few breaths.

I see all the times you stopped hurrying, played in the field of creative joy, took a nap, flowered with self-kindness.

I see the kisses you savored, the connections you took in, the evanescent beauty of life you let break you open.

I see the days you started with reverence and ended with gratitude.

I see the times you nodded briskly at your fears, said “I hear you; we’ll talk later” and turned away to pick up the pen, the paintbrush, the business plan.

I see all the times you bit your tongue when you wanted to say something cruel, all the times you took a deep, slow breath and found your heart instead of your anger.

I see all the times you softened your heart, forgave yourself, forgave someone else, dropped the grudge, the blame, your defenses.

I see all the times you turned away from comparison and envy at the curated lives parading on the screens that surround you, turned off the din and settled back into your sovereignty.

And all the ways you have allowed life to temper you, faced your shadow with tenderness, dared vulnerability, loved greatly.

The times you dug deep to serve – from the money given when the month was tight to the petition signed to the soup made. Yes, I see that. And yes, it was enough.

Please imagine us in a circle that stretches – literally – around the globe. We join hands. We do not sing “Kumbaya.” We do, however, look to the right and then to the left. We nod at each other. Maybe we tear up a little. We are, after all, fiercely awesome.

We bow to each person’s fierce desire to be whole and to heal the whole.

We are ennobled by each other.

Thank you, we whisper, thank you.

Voids

Sorry for my disappearance.  I'm back in Mexico and, as usual, that takes some adjustment for me.  I can no longer hide out in my backwoods mountain cabin and avoid the drunken crowds.  They surround me.  Everywhere.  I have probably come the closest to drinking again in the last three weeks than I ever have in my sobriety.  And once again, it would have been to punish someone or to get them to change their ways, not because "I" wanted a drink.

Which is just fucked up thinking and the last time I drank to try to change someone else I almost killed myself and it still didn't work

But things are different now than they were almost 2.5 years ago when I did that.  Back then I wasn't strong enough to escape, at least I didn't think I was.  But now I am and I know it and while I may have felt so unhappy in the last few weeks to think about drinking again, I knew I wouldn't.  I knew I was stronger than that.

That being said, I was miserable and I don't function well when I'm miserable, in fact, I don't function at all which explains the void in this blog.  It gets very tiring doing this on my own and since you guys know I'm always looking for signs, I'll tell you about one that keeps hitting me over my head.
As my friend, cp, says, "Ding Dong."

Sign 1:  I picked up one of my fellow elves to go do some Christmas shopping for the ninos a couple of weeks ago.  She hadn't been in the car five minutes when she said, "Hey, Christine ________ told me to tell you to contact her.  She says if you want to go to an AA meeting or need someone to talk to to call her.

See what happens when you tell the whole world you're an alcoholic?  I had no idea that Christine was an AA'er.  In fact, I thought she was a drinker because I see her at all the same functions I go to, which involve drinking.

Sign 2:  I was at another fundraiser, because when you hold fundraisers for your own cause you are then obligated to go to every fundraiser under the sun, whether it be for the street dogs, computers for the school, or knitting ponchos for cats.  A man I know and I started talking, he has been sober for six years and I already knew this.  He said, "You and I should go to an AA meeting in Merida, it would be a hoot!"

An AA meeting a "hoot"?

Signs 3:  The cap'n and I were driving back from our little project house in Dzilam de Bravo one day and there were signs everywhere.  No, I didn't see the AA triangle in amorphous cloud formations, or spelled out in fallen, decaying palm fronds, instead I saw it painted in peeling paint on the sides of crumbling buildings in almost village we passed through.

I have driven through these villages dozen of times and never noticed an AA sign.

On another day, a group of us went to the fair on the outskirts of Merida  and as I looked over to the side of the road, there was a compound of white building and at the gate stood a bust of a man, carved in the concrete below, "Dr. Bob" and the AA symbol.

Am I looking for signs pointing me towards AA or are they just appearing?  I don't know.  I don't think I'm ready yet but I have a feeling, some day soon, I will be.

You Do What You Can: My Voyage to Sobriety Via the Internet

Hi Gang,
I just wanted to share a link to an article I wrote for Sober Nation.  Most of you already know the story but I urge you to visit their website, if you haven't already.
http://www.sobernation.com/voyage-to-sobriety-via-the-internet/

Stronger

“When others in doubt, your strong belief steers.”
― Toba Beta, Betelgeuse Incident

“It just be life, that's all. Ain't nothin' happened to you, ain't happened to most women whether they care to admit it or not. You strong, Babygirl. You a woman. You gotta be.”
― Marilyn Fullen-Collins 

“you never know how strong you are... until being strong is the only choice you have.”
― Cayla Mills

“Where the will is strong there’ll always be a way
The dream goes on forever and a day”
― Samael

Stronger!  That is my word for the year.  I'm kind of borrowing it from Lance Armstrong's philosophy, "Live Strong," minus the performance enhancing drugs and years of lying or purported lying.  Been there, done that.

Why Stronger, not strong?

Because I already feel incredibly strong.  Stronger than I ever remember feeling in my life.  Others have always commented on what I strong person I am, but in my past I found that statement ludicrous.  Couldn't they see the real me behind the facade, the one that felt on the verge of crumbling if someone poked too hard.  The hairline cracks snaking across the eggshell thin surface, breath held tight in fear of shattering.

Then I did. Crumble and shatter, that is.  And everyone saw that it was all an act.

I could have laid there in pieces, but I didn't.  I rebuilt. Me. Stronger!

As I have mentioned before on this blog, I had a mantra that I repeated to myself as I lay in bed at night, a quivering pile of splintered shards of myself.

Dear God,

Help me,

To

Be Better,

(I would try to picture in my mind a healthier, whole me.  It was so hard to remember what I looked like)

Live Better,

(To have just a semblance of a life again.)

Love Better.

(To once again be able to feel real love, for myself, and others)

It worked.

I am better, I live better,  I love better.

May I present my new mantra:

Dear God,

Help me,

To

Be Stronger,

(physically, emotionally, spiritually)

Live Stronger,

(I have jumped so many hurdles in the last year, conquered so many fears, I feel so capable)

Love Stronger.

(Oh yeah! Watch out!)

50 Shades Of Gray

Days of Sobriety: 333 (that's gotta be a lucky number)

This is going on record as being the shortest blog in the history of this blog.  I think. I don't have enough time to go back and check because I'm scrambling about getting ready to take my grandson out of town to shop for school clothes and make on last big splash in a hotel swimming pool before school starts.

I did make time to go for a walk this morning, the weather has cooled off and it's lying to me and telling me that autumn is already here.  I walked past my old high school, it has been boarded up for years and is an eyesore that the town can't figure out what to do with, there is too much asbestos in it to tear it down.  Out front is a stump of an old tree and I remember being down on all fours retching under that tree.  It was after my first high school dance and I was 15.  In the midst of my bilious soliloquy, I noticed a pair of black shiny shoes planted in front of me, and my eyes traveled up a blue uniformed figure to squint into the disgusted eyes of our town's own version of Andy Griffith, his shiny black shoes now spattered with the cherry vodka streaked contents of my stomach.

Now flash forward 34 years and I am once again on all fours retching but this time the figure hovering over me is the cap'n and his eyes are worried and tired as he tries to hand me a cold washcloth.  Once again, there are cherry colored streaks in my heaved up stomach contents but this time they are probably the results of a Mallary-Weiss laceration (forgive me for playing nurse) from my violent persistent vomiting.  The vodka I drank this time wasn't cherry flavored and I only drank it because I had run out of bourbon and rum.

Really?  This acrid, damaging, masochistic relationship with alcohol is what I worked so hard at to maintain?  And it had such a fortuitous beginning, ha.  Talk about Fifty Shades of Gray

I have three words to the commenters over on "Crying Out Now" this morning who are so scared, as I was, to let this relationship go:

GET A LIFE!

Okay, four words:

NOW!

Coming Clean: Part II...finally

It is the hour to rend thy chains,
The blossom time of souls. ~Katherine Lee Bates

Day 216 of Sobriety

So here is what happened.  The day before my birthday, the cap'n and I were sitting in a little courtyard restaurant in Merida for lunch.  Because I wanted to celebrate I ordered a daquiri limon sin alcohol con ron seperado. In other words in English, I ordered a daquiri without alcohol but asked the waiter to go ahead and serve the rum separate on the side.  I did this because they are going to charge me the same with or without rum and someone at the table will always drink that shot of rum. (Yes, it's usually the cap'n and yes, I know how to spell E-N-A-B-L-E-R).  Anyway, the drink came and I did what I usually do, I sniffed the drink. I've ordered a daquiri in this same manner before and the waiters or bartender, who just can't comprendo why someone would want a daquiri without alcohol, have still delivered to me a benign looking frosty drink loaded with enough rum to make my eyes water. In the past, I have always promptly returned these drinks back to the bartender and ordered a Coke-lite.  This time the sniff test had a negative result.

But when I tasted the drink, it tasted...uh, funny.  It didn't taste like rum but it didn't taste like a straight lemonade (which is what I should have ordered) either.  Was it possible, after all my safeguards, the bartender had still snuck in a little hooch? The feeling of elation that swept through me was intense, and I'm not exaggerating.  In a blink of an eye, I rationalized that I had done my part and, if this drink happened to have alcohol in it, I was absolved of any wrongdoing. And it was my birthday. And I was turning 50.  And that was special enough for a little transgression.  And no one would know.  And, after all, I had done my part.  And maybe I would just allow myself this one day to drink.

And instead of sending that drink back, I gulped it down and motioned for the waiter to bring me another.

Alas, the drinks had no alcohol in them and the only buzz I got was a sugar buzz and as we walked back to our hotel I had that sluggish, indolent feeling that too much food and sun gives you.  But those two bogus drinks had lit a fuse in my brain and I had all but made up my mind to give myself a  special 50th birthday gift.  I was going to let myself drink.  Just a glass of wine, okay maybe two.  Just for that one day.  

 I know. I know.  Cringe!

We got to our room at the hotel and I turned the key in the lock.

"Surprise!"

Our friends, Barbara and Jack, had driven up to share my birthday with me. 

Poof! There went the insidious birthday present I had planned for myself.  Because, while I knew the cap'n wouldn't support me in my plan to allow myself to drink, he wouldn't tell on me. He'd keep my secret.  But all my plans and schemes were now laid to ruin because my friends had showed up and I have too much pride to let them see me throw away everything I had worked for and they had supported me through. And they would tell everybody else.

Thank you, God!

That cliff is still right in front of me.  I'm not standing at the edge looking over anymore but I'm just a hop and a skip away.  I need to keep backing up. 

This week I am laboring to dig my well of compassion for others a little deeper, I still suffer the sin of condescension and I know when I get to thinking of myself being above others' transgressions my Co-worker is fixin' to give me a smack-down.  I need to remind myself that when I was considering that duplicitous birthday gift, I knew very well that booze isn't a gift that keeps on giving, instead it keeps on taking and taking and taking...and you never know what it's going to leave you with.

So today I'm just out there doing my best to keep on digging and backing up.

Coming Clean: Part I

 Men are not punished for their sins, but by them. ~Elbert Hubbard

Day 207 of Sobriety

I promised I would always be honest and I have a confession to make.  You might have noticed that lately instead of putting “Day # of Abs” up there on my day count I sneakily changed it to “Day # of Sobriety” and that is because I have drank in those 207 days.  Early in my sobriety, I think it was  in the first two or three months, I took four little sips of beer at four separate times.  Gasp!  It was early in my sobriety and I can remember that the days when I chose to imbibe in my four little sips were sunny and bright and warm, the kind of days for which cold bracing beer is just made and I just wanted that taste on my tongue for just an instant.  And that was it, that was enough.  I didn’t confess it to ya’ll at the time because I truly didn’t think it was significant, but then I read a post from a fellow traveler on this journey and he had taken a toast at a friend’s funeral and he was feeling very torn about whether to reset his sobriety date in AA and he was questioning the other members of the message board about what he should do.  From the responses he received, I realized that even though I might not attach much significance to those 4 little sips of beer, others do, and because I want others to recognize my sincerity and integrity and commitment in this vital venture of mine, I changed my Days to Sobriety Days instead of Abs Days and more importantly I quit taking sips of beer, or anything else.

So why did I not think those 4 little sips were significant?  Because at none of the times that I took those sips did I believe that I was jeopardizing my sobriety. I didn’t and still don’t, believe that any one of those 4 little sips would send me spiraling into a relapse.  And they didn’t. The Catholic religion believes that the difference between a venial and a mortal sin is that when you choose to commit a mortal sin you willingly and knowingly turn your back on God.  Those little sips were venial sins against my sobriety, I didn’t turn my back on sobriety.  I believe it’s the significance that we place on things that give them their power.  If I had believed those four little sips would trigger a relapse, they could have.  If I believed cooking with wine could steal my control and have me pouring a glass while I cook, it might.  If I believed that if I continue to go to bars and parties, I would eventually, inevitably drink, I probably would.  But those are the beliefs of others, they are not mine, and that is why I have not joined with some of the established establishments in this field, because if I started attaching the importance they feel I should on some things that I don’t think are all that important, I may start to believe, as they do, that I am destined to fail. And I will.

Where do I draw the line?  What is the difference between a sip and a glass or two of wine if I don’t attach any significance to them?  I don’t know, I just know for me there is a difference. Why, if they were not significant, did I wait so long to write abou tmy 4 little sips?  My surface response is that I always thought there were more important things to write about, but I’m sure down deep under the surface there is some avoidance of the issue involved.  I don’t want to spend a whole lot of effort justifying those 4 little sips because, then again, I’m attaching too much significance to them and giving them too much power.  

You might have noticed this blog is just Part 1.  There was an incidence during my birthday weekend that I feel jeopardized my sobriety more than those 4 little sips but in my commitment to be more concise, I’ll save that for my next blog. 

So today I’m just out there doing my best to avoid the near occasions of sin, no matter the significance or insignificance attached.

P.S. Sorry for the confusion to the early readers of this post, I forgot to put my title in the title slot. Lo siento.

P.P.S.  I just read through this post again and noticed all the errors that were there.  It's kind of a confusing post anyway and it was even more so before I corrected it.  My excuse is that we had to run into Merida early this morning and I wanted to post this before I left, knowing that by the time I got home I would have brain drain.  Instead, my brain hadn't had it's fill of caffeine or daylight yet and was still on snooze mode.  Readers of  the earlier non-improved post probably thought I'd started sipping again. Ja Ja Ja

Fixin' To

"It's never too late to be what you might have been."

Overcoming Addiction Quote by George Eliot (November 1819 - December 1880)

Day 201

Another long absence to explain/excuse away, it’s such a relief to be able to be honest and not have to cover up my drinking anymore.  Last night we were supposed to go to yet another fundraiser and I just didn’t feel like it and called my friend who was throwing it to tell her that I wasn’t going to make it, a year ago she would have assumed that I was too drunk or hungover.  Not anymore.

I’ve been busy. Busy meddling in other people’s business and busy offering unsolicited advice.  Oh, and I didn’t have any internet service for three days which nettled me to no end.  And the internet provider didn’t even call to ask for my advice, which frustrated me even further.

You see, I’m a fixer.  I love to be given a problem and asked for a solution.  Okay, maybe I’m not asked for solutions all that often but I’m always ready with one if you do ask, or even if you don’t.  Except when it comes to my own problems.  Ah-ha!  I can remember sitting on my sofa in the dark, unkempt and miserable in the midst of shaky withdrawals and telling the cap’n how much I hated “this,” how I couldn’t do it anymore, how much I hated me.  He would reply, “Fix it.”

Oh God!  How simple that solution seems now but how insurmountable it seemed then.  If you’re just starting this journey, you’re probably saying, “Tell me how, tell me how.”  If you’re where I am, you’re probably saying, “Why did it take me so long.”  And if you’ve been sober for a while, your nodding and saying, “I told you so.”

The solution is simply quit drinking.  So I quit drinking and everything is hunky-dory, right? Wrong.  Drinking is like a big road block sign warning you that there is danger ahead and that you’re better off taking the detour then hazarding the potholes and dangers that lie ahead.  For years,  I kept taking the detours and they kept taking me further and further from my destination, in the end I didn’t even remember where I wanted to go, much less how to get there.

So now I’ve climbed over the drinking road block and I’m hitting different road blocks and I have decisions to make.  I can take another detour, or change directions, or try to hitch a ride with someone and go wherever they’re going, or I can just sit there and be stuck.  OR I CAN CLIMB OVER THE DAMN THING AND START REPAIRING THE DAMN ROAD.

So last week I was sitting at one of these roadblocks, feeling trapped, and considering my options. Okay, enough already with the damn road construction, I’m going to speak plainly.  I was frustrated with a certain situation (How’s that for plain speaking?) and I was feeling trapped.  I was so sick and tired of someone else deciding what my options are.  So I decided I need to go back to work.  I mean really, here I am bellyaching and worrying about not being able to afford to live in CO and here but I won’t get off my lazy ass to support the cause?  But the problem is my ass ain’t just lazy, it’s scared.  Probably more scared than lazy.  But my ass is tired of being scared and lazy.

So I contacted some travel nursing agencies and I was actually getting past being scared to being excited while I was filling out the application packets.  One of the jobs I was really interested in was in a state that I don’t have a license in. “Just a tiny speed bump,” I thought. “All I have to do is apply for a license in that state.” WRONG!  Come to find out, in order to receive licensure in that particular state I have to prove that I have worked 520 hours in the past two years in the state I am licensed in.  I haven’t.  Major roadblock.  But not insurmountable, all I have to do is clock some hours in my home state.

I went to the website of the hospital in which I worked for 20 odd years and yes, there was an opening in the OR.  Great, right?  I wasn’t so sure.  The OR director is the same one who was my boss for a few years and we always had a good relationship….I think.  The last time I inquired about working there a few years ago, she told me that they didn’t need me, that their surgery schedule wasn’t busy enough.  That was true, but as an alcoholic, I always get to wonder if my drinking had anything to do with it.  Let me make it clear, I never went to work impaired, not unless you count hangovers, in that case I was impaired for 20 years, but I’m sure the apt description, “She’s a damn good nurse, but you know she’s a drinker” that I had heard applied to several of my esteemed colleagues was applied to me as well through the years.

I could have detoured around the discomfort of applying for a job back at this facility and applied at another facility in the state, but I really wanted to refresh my skills in a place that I was familiar with, plus, I needed a good reference from this supervisor to apply for other jobs.  So,…gulp…I emailed her about my situation and prepared to wait for the verdict.

I didn’t have to wait long. She emailed me the next morning, “I’ve been thinking about you,” she wrote, “I could really use you while some of the new staff is training”.

Alleluia! One more roadblock kicked to the ditch along with one more fear that my drinking had left more potholes to fill.

So I’m fixin’ to get my lazy, scared, old ass back to work.  There are a lot more roadblocks to get rid of before I can go back to work, and going back to work is just one more leg of the journey, but God it feels good to be back on the road. 

Damn good!  

So today I’m just out there doing by best to keep jumpin’ those roadblocks, fillin’ in the potholes and fixin’ the road that lies ahead.  I’m fixin’ to get to where I’m goin’.

P.S. In reference to the picture above, it doesn't seem to matter how far I go, I always end up back in KS.  Can someone tell me how to delete the "No Place Like Home" app in my ruby red slippers?

Beach Boogie

Day 185 of Sobriety

I had other plans for my blog today, actually I was torn between writing about newfound honesty or my plans to go back to work but I guess my Co-Writer decided nobody wanted to read about that sh%$ because when I decided to take a walk to more fully formulate my profound thoughts on the matters, he hit me right between the eyes with a “sign.”

I hadn’t gone far, actually I had just reached the end of my calle, when right in front of me was an older man making his way to the beach.  He was using a walker with wheels and you could see his legs were stiff and strictured and his progress was slow in the soft sand. Now I could stop right there and make this a whole blog about perseverance and not giving up and living your life in spite of your infirmities and burdens.

But that’s not the point.  I haven’t given you the full picture yet.  

Hanging off the front of the walker was a white plastic chair, one of the flimsy ones you see everywhere, the ones down here usually have the Modelo or Sol beer logo on the back of them.  Now I could stop here and write a blog about stopping in our struggles to take a moment to sit in the sun and enjoy its warmth on our face and know that all of the pain and hardship is worth it.

But you still haven’t got the whole picture.

Because hanging on the side of the walker was a boogie board and don’t you just know that as he pushed that stubborn sumbitch of a walker in that unrelenting sand his eyes were focused on that cool water that lay in front of him and all he could think of was that soon he would be able to move effortlessly in its merciful buoyancy and when he had swum as far and fast as he could go the waves would send him racing back to shore.  

I’m not sure of the lesson in that, I’m lazy today and I’ll let you come up with your own instead of supplying you with yet another one of my sophomoric analogies.

Oh, you still don’t have the full picture.

He was wearing a Speedo.

I’m not sure what the lesson is there either, but the complete picture makes me smile.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to get my boogie on and strut my stuff, infirmities be damned!

The Girl With Kaleidoscope Eyes

At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.

Jean Houston

Day 183

I passed the six month mark three days ago, and several very profound, I’m sure, blogs that I meant to sit down and write have escaped my brain never to return.  

My world is a kaleidoscope these days, every slight spin more and more fascinating and enthralling. This morning is made up of bright fragments of birdsong, orange and fuchsia hibiscus blossoms, the sway of palm fronds, the morning surf and warm sand.  There are fragments of expectancy, and worry, and laughter and tears in there also and as the day whirls around me they will click into their various spaces and all of it will come together to form a perfectly beautiful, ever shifting mosaic.

From Wikipedia: the word "kaleidoscope" is derived from the Ancient Greek καλός (kalos), "beautiful, beauty",[2] εἶδος (eidos), "that which is seen: form, shape"[3] and σκοπέω (skopeō), "to look to, to examine",[4] hence "observer of beautiful forms." [5]

I am an observer of beautiful forms, my life is beautiful, beauty.  This is an apt description of who I am these days.  A couple of people have commented to me in pm’s and in person that I have made sobriety seem easy, effortless, maybe too much so, but they forget I didn’t blog about or share my first 3-4 years of this struggle, or maybe they haven’t read my first year of this blog when I was still trying to moderate. But the plain truth is, my life did become so much easier, so much more effortless, when I simply quit drinking. Believe me, there are still days that the sun doesn’t shine through the end of my kaleidoscope and all of the sharp fragments look dark and gray and no amount of spinning changes the view.  But those days are the minority now, they had their time in the majority when I was drinking and I couldn’t find the sun through my constant cloud of booze.  Now I know the dark days will pass and the light will shine through again and all my brilliant little pieces will click and find their vibrant beautiful niches.

I must ever remind myself that what I hold in my hands is a fragile contraption of reflections and tiny fragile bits of me and if I am careless and drop it all those brilliant little pieces will spill onto the warm sand to be washed away by the morning surf.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to hold on tight and not let my ever spinning world make me dizzy.

P.S.  Years ago one of my favorite students gave me a kaleidoscope, he said it symbolized himself, simplicity and plainness on the outside but ever-shifting beauty on the inside.  It got lost in one of my moves and I’ve been looking for it for years. I probably gave it away when I was drunk.  I need to go buy me another kaleidoscope.

Cock-A-Doodle-Do!!!

Day 145

Up at the ungodly hour of 5 am this morning, I wish the neighbor could convince his damn rooster to sleep in on Sundays.  Hey wait a minute, my neighbor doesn’t have a rooster.  That must have been me crowing.

The cap’n and I and our friends, Yack (That’s how our friend Gaby pronounces Jack, and it fits) and Barbara, decided to go down the Bull Pen yesterday evening for “Beer Friday On Saturday” (I’ll explain that in another post sometime).  We all promised we would only have one since we vowed to get home and cook dinner and stay at home for a change.  When we got there, a couple that rents a casa down the calle from us, Peggy and Joe, were sitting at a table up front.  We said, “Hi” and the cap’n stopped to chat with them while Yack and Babs and I took a table next to them.  I’ve never really warmed up to this couple, one reason is they don’t seem to associate with many of the expats from our village, instead they hang out with a group of fellow Canadians in Chixculub.  But the big reason is because last year, a couple weeks after New Year’s, we ran into them at the Bodega in Progreso (that is the main grocery store), we’d just walked into the store and Joe was standing at the service counter.

“I heard about your New Years Eve,” he boomed to me in decibels loud enough to be heard across El Gulfo to Galveston.

“Oh really,” I asked, trying to find an escape route through the crowd maneuvering their shopping carts through the entrance.

“I heard you were plastered!!” boomed the human foghorn again.

Suffice it to say, I’ve been giving them a wide berth ever since.

We stayed true to our word yesterday and only had one drink each, as I was getting in the car to leave I realized I was carrying the glass from the bar.  When I went back in to return it, Patrick, the owner, was at Peggy and Joe’s table.  I went over and sat the still half-full glass down on their table.

“Has that got rum in it?” Joe boomed. “If it does, I’ll drink it.”

“Nope, just Coke-lite,” I replied nonchalantly.

“No rum?” the crestfallen Joe asked in bewildered disbelief.

“ ‘Fraid not.” I patted his hand and left.

My neck’s a little sore this morning from the strain of holding it up so high.

So today I’m just out there doing my best not to get too cocky and praying for low humidity (I’ve put my elf outfit back on and I’m making peanut brittle to sale at a bazaar to build up the kitty for next Christmas’s toy drive).

Welcome To The World, Atalie Jolene!!

Every child begins the world again.... ~Henry David Thoreau

Day 134

My granddaughter was born yesterday.  Ol' Hank was right when he said what he said above, I have a whole new world to live in.  A world that has Atalie Jolene in it and I'll be able to give her a world in which she has a sober grandma.  I am so thankful for that.

As I returned my son's phone call yesterday via Skype, I had the thought, "Hey, I don't have to try to cover up the fact that I've been drinking, or wait until I sober up a little before I make this call."  I'm so thankful for that, too.

I am so full of hopes and dreams for this baby girl, and so full of hopes and dreams for me.  I'm looking out at the beach as I type this and I can see her with her with her little beach bag bending over to pick up a pretty shell and then squealing and running as the cold water from the gulf rushes in to kiss her toes.  I can see a bevy of well-loved dolls gathered around a little table up in the dome as Princess Atalie serves them tea up in her tower.  (I've had the tiny little china tea set for years, just waiting for her to get here.)

I can see her painting a pretty pink birdhouse with lots of yellow daisies and purple butterflies to hang high in the pine trees above the tire swing at my cabin in Colorado.  I see snow angels taking flight as a little angel in red boots falls back giggling, flapping arms and legs in the soft snow.  I feel a sleepy head on my shoulder as the dancing flames of a campfire settle down to glowing embers.

I feel tears of joy on my cheek as I type this.  Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Welcome to my new world, Atalie Jolene!

Ask And You Shall Receive

I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had absolutely no other place to go.

--Abraham Lincoln

Day 124

The wind blew me off the beach this morning and onto the beach road which is a little more sheltered.   I soon found myself at the village square and since it was Domingo I wandered into the church.  I tried to shush my mind long enough to just listen but I’m not very good at that.  I found myself thinking about the mantra I used to repeat to myself on those tortured nights when I couldn’t sleep and I was trying to force myself to stay in bed and not go down those damn stairs and open that damn bottle of wine.  Some of those nights I really thought I was going to die.  When I’d worn out the “Hail Mary’s” and  I’d gone through all of the remnants of prayers that I could remember,  I would repeat this mantra over and over hoping it would lull me to sleep.  Sometimes it worked, more times than not though, the wine won the battle.

The mantra I made up for myself was a simple plea,

Dear God,

Please help me to

Be Better

Live Better

Love Better

This morning in the church I realized he had been listening.

Roses, Coppertone And Damn Bees

"There is nothing perfect,” August said from the doorway. “There is only life.”

--From The Secret Life Of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd

Day 122

Our next door neighbors had an above ground swimming pool which was considered pretty high class in our middle class neighborhood back in the 70’s.  I was about six or seven years old before Mom decided I was old enough to swim in it without her playing lifeguard.  I remember feeling quite grown up and bragging about my new privileges to my younger friends, Lavonna and Lori, who just rolled their eyes and I’m sure thought, “Oh Brother, here she goes acting all like little Miss Know-It-All again.” 

I can remember counting the seconds and giving an update to Mom every ten minutes of that torturous hour after lunch that I was required to wait in order to avoid succumbing to the deeply dreaded cramps whose merciless reputation was facilitated by generations of mothers.  Luckily, today’s mothers are no longer subjected to the whining plea of, “Aw come on Mom, I swear I’ll just sit on the side and put my feet in.  I swear I won’t get in.  Can I go, Mom? Can I? Can I?  Pleeeeeaaaaasssssssseee?” since the fabled cramps have now gone the way of stuck crossed-eyes and gum that stuck in your stomach for seven years.

Finally the hour would be up or Mom would finally crater and I would run out the front door and across the neighbor’s yard and around the side of their house to the gate to their back yard and that 8 ft. in diameter oasis of flimsy aluminum filled with cool chlorinated water.  Along the side of their house ran a hedge of climbing roses and bees were drawn there by the sun warmed intoxicating perfume.  They would happily buzz around in a drowsy lull until a golden headed little girl raced by and the new intoxicating scent of Coppertone turned their heads and they would give chase.

Sorry Mom.  I didn’t sit on the side and dangle my feet for 10 minutes like I promised.

Yesterday morning I was sitting on my back patio and that same scent from so many years ago floated in from the blooming roses in my flowerbed.

“We need to leave in 10 minutes,” I hollered in to the cap’n as I put the camera and Coppertone in my beach bag.  We were headed up the coast a ways with a group of friends to the village of Sisal with its uninhabited sweeping beaches.

If we had been traveling by boat, Sisal would be a hop, skip and a jump from here but we were going by automobilia and because of one inlet that lacked a bridge, we had to drive all the way inland to Merida and then back out to the coast.

When our caravan finally arrived at Sisal’s windswept dune, we spilled out of our cars like eager seven year olds.  As I crested one of the dunes and looked at the miles of remote beach that stretched as far as my eyes could see I thought, “I could live here for a while.  I could walk these beaches for hours without seeing a soul.  I could write “my book” without interruption.  I could drink without anyone knowing.”

Damn Bees!

I ran down to the water and dove in.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to stop and smell the roses and dodging those damn bees.