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.

Bearing Gifts From Afar

The Nativity in our village church.  My blanket is folded up neatly in the corner.  I guess Baby Jesus got too hot.

Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  And today?  Today is a gift.  That's why we call it the present.  ~Babatunde Olatunji, also attributed to Alice Morse Earle

Day 116

Good Morning!  I know it’s another “Act Like I’m Not A Drunk Saturday” but I’ve decided to do a regular blog today because I’ve been kind of busy/lazy this week and haven’t written much, plus I can’t think of anything to write that is worthy of ALINADS (Act Like I’m Not A Drunk Saturday) status, plus it’s my blog and I can do anything I want with it.  So there.

So now in a more charitable timbre, yesterday was el Dia de las Reyes Mago,  or Three Kings Day down here which celebrates the day that the three kings arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child.  It is a day of great celebration here in a country that finds a reason almost every day to throw a party.

Anyway…I had my own gift I wanted to give the Christ Child yesterday, it wasn’t frankincense, myrrh, or gold, although I did try to talk the cap’n into throwing a gold coin in the coffers but let’s just say he doesn’t possess the same generous spirit that I do.  My gift was a baby blanket that I had knitted a couple of years ago.  The blanket’s pattern is called the tree of life and it includes bare branched trees on both ends of the blanket and rows of tulips in the middle. More tulips with their twisting stems and leaves border the entire blanket.  It’s an odd theme for a baby blanket with its stark naked trees and spring tulips, but I guess it is supposed to signify the cycles of life and birth.  I do know that it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever knitted and I learned a lot of new stitches and techniques through trial and error and demonstration (Thank you, internet and KnitWitch youtube videos)while I was completing it.  I did a lot of rip-outs and redo’s and I actually abandoned the whole thing for several months.  When I picked it back up, it almost seemed easier to rip the whole thing out and start over but instead I decided to go back, figure out where I had left off, find my mistakes, correct them and go on.

I didn’t realize until I was writing this how much that little blanket represents my life.  It seems like a worthy gift for a King.

So I went to our little church yesterday morning to present my gift.  I wanted to do it in secret, but there was a senora in the front row.  I decided to wait her out so I let the kneeler down and decided I’d have a little chat while I was waiting.  The kneelers in our simple little church are narrow and they are not padded so for me there is a tendency to keep my reflections short and when I saw the senora stretch out her arms along the back of the pew (she was sitting) and kick off her shoes, I decided I would continue my stealthy (I don’t think that’s a word but, again, this is my blog and I can do what I want)vigil across the square at my favorite taqueria.  After dos tacos I ventured back across the square and into the church.  It was empty.  I carefully picked my way through the assortment of barn animals that include a rearing stallion and a flamingo and gently placed my blanket over our Baby Jesus who is of grande proportions compared to his Mama and Papa (poor Mary) and is sporting eyelashes a young calf would covet and a knitted jumper and ski cap.  It’s been chilly down here.

Now he has my blanket for additional warmth.  As usual I like to attach an inordinate amount of importance to any gift I give and I wonder if years from now, the senoras of the altar guild will lovingly spread the blanket over the Baby Jesus and tell of its mysterious appearance on el Dia de las Reyes Magos many years ago.  Or will my humble little blanket be appropriated (aka stolen) for another poor baby in meager surroundings to be swaddled in.  I hope it’s the "latter"!!!! (If you read this before 11:17 pm CST, it mistakenly said  "former." It must be those last traces of alcohol still floating through my medulla oblangata.  Thanks for pointing it out Lulu, I'd rather have real baby slobbers any day.)

So today I’m just out there doing my best to keep spreading my gifts and watering that tree of life.

P.S. I'm going to a memorial mass for a friend's mother this morning and I'll get a pic of our Baby Jesus and the blanket.  If it's still there.

Landscaping

When weeding, the best way to make sure you are removing a weed and not a valuable plant is to pull on it. If it comes out of the ground easily, it is a valuable plant. ~Author Unknown

Day 20 of abs. This is usually about the time that just one won't hurt me but I still feel pretty strong. I'll get by with a little help from my friends.

I'm sorry I didn't blog yesterday but the cap'n had the day off and that always throws a kink in my schedule. For a long time he didn't know about this blog but he does now. He doesn't want to know about it but he does.

The bugs are so bad here right now that this morning I decided to bypass the parks where I can't open my mouth without taking in a mouthful of gnats and take my walk in a residential area. I love to look at the houses and their lawns and flowerbeds and try to decide what kind of people live there. I can be very judgmental. The loyal and patriotic are pretty obvious with their stars and stripes bunting hung from their porch and their red, white and purple (that's as close as you can get to blue) petunias in their window boxes and the bronze eagles on their mailboxes. They're a little too fervent for my taste and I hurry by before the owner can bustle out and invite me to the next Tea Party rally. I smelled a "cat lady" (How come there are no cat men?) from a half of a block away today and sure enough as I got to her house there were cats in every window and staring down from the branches of the trees. I'm not kidding, you could smell cat a half of a block away. I'm not a cat person. I find them menacing and arrogant and a little alien-like and that house just goes to show how much power they can wield over a person. But let's march onward. Here's a house that boast precision down to every little blade of manicured grass. Their fresh wood chip covered beds hold perpetually trimmed evergreens and there's not a weed to be found. The only flowers are geraniums in two planters flanking the front door. This is obviously the work of a landscaper, the homeowners are probably too busy or just don't have the inclination to get their hands dirty. I don't like them, they seem too in control and lacking in personality, but that's okay because they probably wouldn't like me either. I do have to admit I went by another house like this one this morning and had the same reaction until I spotted a tree swing with a wide plank seat hanging from a tree branch right in their front yard for everybody to see. I decided I already liked these people a lot. Let's move on. Here's a two story white house with pink shutters and pink everything else. There is a pink rose wreath on the door and a wrought iron garden set painted pink. Pink hollyhocks spring up around all sides of the house. This town has more hollyhocks then I've ever seen in one town. It must be a town law that every house has to have hollyhocks, which isn't a bad idea at all. The residents also seem to have a penchant for those old bicycles with the balloon tires, wide seats and a basket attached to the upright handlebars. They don't ride them, they use them as yard ornaments. I've seen at least five yards with these in them and the pink house has a pink one propped up against the front of the house among the pink hollyhocks. I saw the owner out one morning and she had on a pink tee shirt and pink leggings and she was bent over like those corny wooden cut outs that were so popular a few years ago (at least they were in the down home towns I frequent) where all you see is the woman's behind while her farmer husband is standing next to her copping a feel. Anyway she was bent over in her pink leggings watering her pink hollyhocks with, you guessed it, a pink watering can. I'd bet if I could have seen her hair it would have been pink too. I'm sure she is one of those always jolly ladies that's always baking cookies or crocheting Kleenex box covers for her neighbors but I'm going to avoid her like the plague if I see her in the grocery store.

Ah, finally we're getting to my favorite one. It's a small white cottage with a peaked roof and a wide porch with a porch swing and a wicker rocker out front. There's a bicycle here too but instead of being propped up for show it is laying where some kid left it as he dashed into the house. I'm sure he's been told not to leave it there hundreds of times. The flowerbeds bloom in a random riot of colors as if the owner didn't want to take the time to plan and plot. Some of the taller plants are planted in the front instead of relegated to the back and the daisies seem to be taking more than their share of the space. A bee buzzes happily among the chaos. The smell of fresh cut grass and honeysuckle mingle in the air. There are weeds popping up among the flowers and a few dandelions are showing their stubborn little yellow heads here and there but you can tell a loving hand is at work here. This owner obviously has a full life with lots of joy but all its messiness too. She works hard to make life beautiful but sometimes it just gets out of control. Sometimes she gets too busy to tend to everything. Her nails are probably chipped and her roots are probably showing. Sometimes she wishes she could escape it all.  She makes mistakes. She's not perfect but she's trying the best she knows how.

I wonder if when people look at me all they can see are the weeds and the cracks in the sidewalks instead of what's blooming inside.

So today I'm out there doing my best to tend my garden and thanking God for concealer and cheap plastic surgery down in MX.

Amy Winehouse Dead At 27

Day 17


Amy Winehouse died this morning at the age of 27. Tragic. But I have to admit one of my first responses was, Well, she finally got what she wanted. Then I reminded myself, it wasn’t what she wanted it was what her addiction wanted. I wrote on one of the message boards how sad it was that while onlookers on the sidelines can see the train coming, the ones caught on the track of addiction are blinded by its bright lights. I need to amend that. I think they can see that train coming but addiction has them tied up to the tracks like one of those damsels in distress in the old movies. A lot of would be heroes tried to ride in and save Amy Winehouse but it was up to her to save herself. Her addiction was stronger than she was and this time the train won. Years ago a friend told me that everyone should try heroin at least once because it was so unbelievably wonderful. I’m glad I said, “No, no, no, no, no, no. “

Today I’m out there doing my best to stay on the right side of the tracks and pay attention to the warning lights.

Walking Straighter

Day 15 of abs


Damn Country songs!! There’s nothing like them to make you feel guilty. I couldn’t listen to a country station on the radio for a year after my divorce. This morning I was driving around, feeling pretty good about myself and this country song, “Please Walk A Little Straighter, Daddy” comes on. It’s all about a son whose father is an alcoholic and how he’s trying to look up to him and he’s asking him to quit drinking. Boy, did that send pangs through my heart. If I could go back and erase every memory that my sons have of me being drunk, I would do it in a heartbeat. I don’t know what I was thinking back then. Drinking at high school football games when they were playing, drinking when their friends were spending the night, drinking when I was preparing a pre-Prom dinner for my youngest son and his date and another couple and my son turned to me and said, “Do you really think I can’t tell when you’re drinking, Mom?” in front of his friends. I was so ashamed and embarrassed. How do I think he felt?

I’ve always thought I would never abuse my children, but I did.  I never thought I was that bad.  It wasn't like I was the drunk dad in the movie "Hoosiers".  But I was bad enough.  I gave them ugly and shameful memories. The shame was not theirs but they had to bear it. They deserved so much better. My sons are grown now and those memories are a permanent part of them. I can’t undo the past, all I can do is try to redeem the present and future and be the mother they deserve.

If someone is reading this that has young children, please give them memories of a parent of which they are proud. Do it for you, for your children and for me.

So today I’m out there doing my best to make new memories that won’t erase the old ones but hopefully they’ll outshine them.

Bootstraps

“Pulling yourself up by your bootstraps”


The origin of this descriptive phrase isn't known. It refers of course to boots and their straps (laces) and to the imagined feat of a lifting oneself off the ground by pulling on one's bootstraps. This impossible task is supposed to exemplify the achievement in getting out of a difficult situation by one's own efforts.

Day 14 of abs

I remember early summer mornings of my childhood my brothers would be forced out of bed at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am. That’s pretty tough for a kid during the summer. They would mount their Schwinn bicycles, still half asleep, and ride halfway across town to the church. It was their week to be altar boys (they call them servers now since girls are allowed to carry out the duties) for the morning mass. I know that they weren’t “called” to do this, Mom and Dad made them. My oldest brother likes to tell the story of how he and fellow altar boy, Steve Barrows, would sneak the communion wine after mass and how he would ride home with an 8:00 am buzz at the ripe age of twelve. He is the other alcoholic in my family but he learned his lessons by the time he was thirty and has been sober for twenty-eight years.

The summer mass server at the church I am attending in the mornings here in this little NW Colorado is the same one every day. Poor guy! He is at least 70 years old and he does double duty as a communion minister. I guess parents don’t make their kids get up to serve mass these days. His hand shakes a little as he presents the host to the communicants and sometimes he chimes the bells a little early during the Consecration of the Host but he doesn’t use that as an excuse not to do it. Today as he preceded the priest in he stumbled and fell at the raised altar. He got right back up, thank God, and went on carrying out his duties during the mass. I don’t think most of the churchgoers even noticed since they were looking at their prayer books and reciting the entrance prayer but I’d bet that through the rest of the mass, that little stumble was all the server could think about.

Instead of congratulating himself on getting back up and carrying on through the mass or even the fact that he showed up every day when no one else would, right now he’s thinking about the fall. How embarrassed he is at his frailty instead of being proud of his strength of will in standing back up and turning to face the rest of us and carrying on. He’ll do it again tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.

So today I’m out there doing my best to stay upright but reinforcing my bootstraps JIC.

PS.  Really God you didn't need to make that poor man fall just so I had something to write about.

That'll Never Happen

Day 13


Thank you to everybody that wrote on the message boards how much they appreciated yesterday’s blog and gave me such precious encouragement on my quest to total sobriety. You guys are the best. Several wrote that the blog would help them make the decision on whether to mod or abs. I’m glad, that is the “purpose” of this blog. I will pass on the kudos to my Co-Writer.

I haven’t had any strong urges for which I’m grateful. It is pretty easy right now since the cap’n is working and he doesn’t drink much and we’re in a town where we don’t know anyone so there’s no pressure from anyone to drink but that’s never been my problem, I don’t need any pressure or a crowd to drink. As a matter of fact, I prefer drinking alone that way nobody interrupts me when I’m talking. LOL! Last evening we were grilling some chicken in a little park right next to the hotel here and I ran back to the room for another glass of wine for the cap’n and felt a twinge. It wasn’t an urge just a momentary sadness at the little drinking rituals I’m going to miss. The playful arguments of whose turn it is to freshen the drinks, the clinking of glasses, the toasts to a beautiful sunset. But then I thought of the things I wouldn’t miss. I made a list of things that will never happen if I don’t drink again.

1. I’ll never ruin a white blouse, a rug, or a computer with spilled red wine. (This one has happened and it was a friend’s computer. She still talks to me).

2. I’ll never wake up with a stranger in my bed (I’ve woken up with strange men but not strangers.)

3. I’ll never get a DUI (Knock on wood, that has never happened).

4. I’ll never wake up with splinters on the inside of my thighs and scabs on my knees (I’m gonna miss that).

5. I’ll never sing Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee” at karaoke night again (by order of all the patrons of La Playa de Chelem bar and restaurant).

6. I’ll never embarrass my grandson by falling down at his wedding reception (if I do it will be the high heels fault, not because I’m drunk).

7. I’ll never wake up in my own vomit or worse (Oh, the good times!)

8. I’ll never have to wonder why my best friend, sister, husband…is no longer talking to me (?)

9. I’ll never get to see flying monkeys or pink elephants (Dang!).

10. I’ll never maim or kill myself or an innocent husband, wife, child, family, friend… because I was driving while drunk (Thank you, God!).



Today I’m out there doing my best to keep adding to the list.

It

Day 12
Someone on the Moderation Management List asked me to write more about why I decided to permanently abs instead of continuing to try my hand at moderating. I've been putting off writing this blog all morning because the commitment I made yesterday still scares me and I have moments where I wish I could take it back and because the reasons are so many and some of them are so hard to put into words. But I'll try. Here goes.
It just doesn't make any sense anymore. As I said on the WFS (Women for Sobriety) message board yesterday. I'm a smart woman but I have continued to let alcohol fool me. "It's" good at it. For a long time, "it" masqueraded as my best friend. "It" was always there when I need "It". If I was lonely, "It" kept me company. If I was sad, "It" made me laugh. When I felt awkward, "It" gave me confidence and when I doubted myself, "It" reassured me. When I was afraid, "It" gave me courage. "It" was there through the good and the bad times.
Then "It" turned on me. "It" made me lonely. "It "made me sad. " It" made me awkward. "It" made me doubt myself. "It" made me afraid. "It" physically and emotionally abused me. But like the abusive spouse to which "It" is often compared, "It" kept drawing me back with the promise that "It" would stop hurting me and it would be good between us again. "It" never lived up to its promise. The abuse got worse and "It" told me I couldn't live without "It", that nobody wanted me or liked me without "It". I found out "It" was wrong. I opened the door to the prison in which "It" held me and saw another world out there waiting for me. I got brave enough to step outside a time or two but something would always scare me, or make me sad, or lonely, or unsure, or sad and I would run back inside to "It". But it was too late. I'd had a glimpse of that other world I wanted to see more of it. I kept sneaking through the door and I started going further and further. I still got sad, and scared, and lonely and unsure but not as much  as when I lived with "It". I found out that others still liked me and wanted me and I started liking myself again. When I used to be in one of my recovery modes, half of me praying that I didn't die and the other half hoping that I would, my husband would say, "I want my wife back." I want her back too. So I've closed the door and I've left my key behind. It's time to move.
When I was driving around this morning trying to pinpoint the main reason that I feel this time is "the time" for me my Co-Writer nudged me and said,
"I have a purpose for you and it sure as hell isn't living your life as a drunk."
I started crying and I knew that was the main reason that I'm not going to risk my life again.
So today I'm out there doing my best to fullfill my purpose and live up to my potential.

Another Life Choice

Day11
This is going to be a quickie.  We all have things we'd rather be doing on a Sunday than read my blog.  Sunday is for new beginnings and it is a new beginning for me.  I have made the decision that the only route left for me to take is total and permanent abstinence from alcohol.  I joined a new message board this last week, Women for Sobriety but I'll admit I still wasn't convinced.  Then someone responded to my introductory post that she got exhausted thinking about all of my Day 1's, Day 10,s Day 19's.... so I went back and read back over my blog this last year. Come on, who was I fooling? Only myself.  Was one more stab at moderation going to be the ticket?  I don't know, I never will.  I just don't want to waste any more of my life on any more "one more times".  As Andy Dufrain said in the movie Shawshank Redemption, "It's time to get busy living or get busy dying."  I know which one I'm choosing.  I may stumble a long the way but I won't be attempting moderation again, it's a done deal.

I have heard from several people that they are starting their individual journeys today.  Whether that be moderation or permanent abstinence, you have my best wishes.  Just remember, if you fall get, back up, if you stray down a wrong path, turn around, if there's a boulder blocking your way, go around it, climb over it or tunnel under it, and listen to your internal GPS, it knows where you need to go.
Safe Travels, my friends.
So today I'm out there doing my best to travel light and leave the burden of alcohol by the wayside.

Life Choice

Day 9 of abs

There is another park I sometimes stop off to walk at after I drop the cap’n off and before I go to mass. I usually have time to make one round of it before it’s time to head for the church. Yesterday I noticed that everybody was lapping me. Even the older people. Even the dog walkers who had to stop several times to let their pooches do their thing. That’s okay. I’m not really there to exercise I’m there just to be. I’m there to notice the army of tiny frogs hopping across the sidewalk, the buzz of the dragonfly as it whizzes by, the fresh morning smell of the day. I’m choosing to be fully a part of life because sometimes I choose not to be.

Every time I sober up I get a new lease on life. Like the cancer survivor, the air is clearer, the grass is greener and the sun shines brighter. Cancer is an abnormal growth of cells. Something strange that happens in our bodies, sometimes through no choice of ours, and our body doesn’t like it. Alcohol is a toxin I choose to put in my body that destroys my cells and mutates them. It makes unwilling little monsters out of them. My body doesn’t like this either. And just like cancer, alcohol metastasizes. But it doesn’t stay in my body, it metastasizes to my soul and then it spreads to my husband, to my sons, to my grandsons, to my friends….and on and on and on. Sometimes I go into remission and I’m so thankful and so joyful and relieved and I swear I will never choose to make my body and soul sick again. But I do. Unlike the cancer patient, I choose to get sick again and again and eventually, if I don’t choose to stop this vicious cycle, it will choose to kill me.

Today I choose not to drink. Today I choose life.

So I’m out there doing my best to choose only the “choice” cuts of life.

P.S. Sorry! I’m sure the alcohol/cancer metaphor has been done to death but that’s what my Co-Writer chose today.