DAY 600!

There's yours truly down in the dungeon, looking for Princess Euphoria.  I think there's a couple of decades where you wouldn't be able to find a picture of me with out a glass in my hand. lol

 And here's me a couple of weeks ago with my grandson.  I found something better to hold onto.


CONGRATULATIONS TO ME!!!!!!!!!

A Fairy Tale

 an•he•do•ni•a (ˌæn hiˈdoʊ ni ə)
n. Psychol.

lack of pleasure or of the capacity to experience it.

I had a couple of comments on my May Day Blog that I'd like to try and address.  One was from Signe who basically asked which came first, finding something that I could fall in love with or giving up drinking.  The other was from a member of the MM Mainlist who said I made such a complicated issue sound simple.  There are no easy answers, we all know this, I told my MM friend, once we get some distance from alcohol everything becomes less complicated, and to do that, Signe, I had to push myself to find something, or many things, that I thought could become more important in my life than alcohol. Then I had to quit drinking to make them worth it.

But there are devious forces at work that keep us from doing either one of these,

Let me introduce you to Princess Euphoria and Princess Anhedonia, they're sisters and they go hand-in-hand and they live in the land of Alcoholism.  Where one goes, the other goes.

First let's talk about Princess Euphoria, we'll call her Phoria for short.  Phoria is the one we met that night we took that first drink.  We felt like we had just met our long lost best friend.  She was always there for us, anytime we needed her.  Phoria was one great gal, even if she was a little flighty, and insincere, even if she was a little dangerous and convinced us to go places where we wouldn't normally go. "Feel like jumping naked off the back of a boat while the crowds watch?"  Sure, why not? "Wanna go home with that cute stranger at the end of the bar?"  Hell, yeah!  She made us feel more alive than we ever had.  She was like the Pamela Anderson of friends, she was fake as hell,  from her false eyelashes to her triple D's, but she was fun and she made us feel so good about ourselves. Hot damn, we loved that gal!  She had lots of friends that she wanted us to meet and they all worshiped her.

The only problem was she had this ugly sister name Princess Anhedonia, we'll call her Annie.  Annie was a loutish, brutish, clod of a gal, she followed Phoria everywhere she went because, hell, she couldn't get any friends on her own.  She was a real sour bitch and she got great pleasure from making us feel bad.  She'd make fun of us, and tell us that we were worthless pieces of shit, and then she'd cover her bristly mouth and giggle, "Just kidding. he-he  You know I love you."  She made our skin crawl and our stomachs turn.  She scared the shit out of us, but we tolerated her.  For Phoria.

Some people wised up fast to Annie, and as much as they liked Phoria, they couldn't put up with her malevolent side-kick, so they regretfully bade their farewells to Phoria, or else they arranged to meet her on the sly for short little get togethers, and as soon as they sensed that Annie was going to show up, they got the hell out of there. These were some smart cookies.  Others, like me, lingered longer,  we loved Phoria so much that we continued to withstand Annie's abuse, just so we could spend as much time as possible with our best friend. She was worth it.  She'd been so good to us.

Now unbeknownst to us, Annie hated Phoria, she wanted all of Phoria's friends for herself. She was secretly plotting to kill her, but first she kidnapped her and put her in a dungeon.  She would let her out every once in awhile just so she could lure us closer, but then she'd quickly throw Phoria back in the dungeon, and we would be forced to tolerate Annie's increasingly sadistic behaviour. We couldn't get rid of her, she started hanging around longer and longer.   Again, some of the friends wised up, and as much as they loved Phoria, they decided they couldn't tolerate anymore of Annie and they escaped.  But others, like me, kept coming back, we'd tolerate anything just for those few moments spent with Phory.  Those few moments of light with her were all we had left in our darkening world.

Annie began letting Phory out for shorter and shorter periods until she had lured all of Phoria's most steadfast friends and trapped us in the dungeon, it was then that she finally killed Phory.  Phoria's friends wouldn't believe it, we  kept looking for Phoria, through all the dark hallways and vomit tainted cellars and into the bottom of every dusty bottle we found, we kept calling out her name.  Some got lost down in the catacombs beneath the dungeon and wandered about aimlessly, looking for Phoria, until they perished.

But some of Annie's prisoners, and this time I was one of them, decided they had to escape, they couldn't live with Annie, and Phoria wasn't coming back.  But Annie was a vigilant and punishing warden and time after time she caught us and pulled us back into her chamber of terrors.  Every attempted escape resulted in a harsher punishment which broke our spirits and made mush of our wills.  Annie was a master at brainwashing and she was especially adept at making us believe that there was nothing waiting for us outside the dungeon walls, we were reviled and worthless beings, blights on the face of the earth.  We were better off where we were. That's what she would have us believe, and she was very convincing.  We shook our head in resignation, we were doomed.

But wait!  There was another sister that we'd forgotten about.  Princess Joy!  We'd actually met her first, before we'd met either Phoria or Annie, she may not have been as crazy fun as Phoria, but she was beautiful, in her shimmering clothes,  and most of all kind.  She also made us feel good, but she made us work for it and her rewards were enduring.  Joy was no pushover, but she was real and she was loyal and we knew she would rescue us, if we but asked. She was our only hope.  We went in search of her, struggling past Annie, we broke free from our cell and ran through the endless dark halls  calling a new name.   Finally we rounded a corner, and a dim glow lit the the walls, it was her, Joy.  She'd been waiting for us, waiting all along, to lead us out of the dungeon that surrounded us,  all we had to do was follow her and keep her in our sight.  

Annie didn't give up that easy though,  she gave chase.  She was big and lumbersome, but she was persistent. Some of us got  outside the dungeon walls and saw all of the obstacles looming in front of us and ran back in.   Some of us looked back long enough to let Annie catch us and throw us back in the dungeon.   She managed to wrap her hands around the ankles of some of us and we had to pull her along until we could break free.  That horrid bitch dogged all of us for a measure but the further we got from her lair, the weaker she got and the closer we got to Joy.

So Signe, your daughter may never find her "passion" or joy until she escapes the clutches of the anhedonia that alcoholism cultivates, she needs to find something that she once cherished, or something she could cherish as a means of escape, and then she needs to keep her eye on that object and quit drinking until that object starts to shine.  Here is a link to a discussion about alcohol induced anhedonia that might convince her.

http://www.soberrecovery.com/forums/newcomers-recovery/188184-emotional-anhedonia.html

And my MM friend, it sounds as if you're gaining distance, don't look back and keep going.

P.S.  I know that some of us embrace the anhedonia that alcohol wraps around us, it insulates us from the pain of life but it also keeps us from the antidote to pain which is joy.
 

Happy May Day

“Be willing to be a beginner every single morning.”
― Meister Eckhart

Way back when I was a young girl we would spend the first day of May making cones out of whatever material we could find, sometimes it was the construction paper from one of our old kindergarten masterpieces that we'd decided to sacrifice in honor of the day, or sometimes it would be a plain white paper plate with fluted edges and barely detectible smudges of ketchup and mustard.

We'd get out our cigar box of broken crayons and decorate the outside with emblems of springs,  yellow daisies and rabbits and the iconic 70's smiley face, then we'd attach a handle to the cone and stuff it full of whatever spring flowers we could filch from Mom's flower beds, usually the early blooming roses and iris's.  With baskets in hand, we'd stealthily prowl the neighborhood, looping the handles of the baskets over the doorknobs of our unsuspecting prey, then we'd knock on the door, or ring the doorbell, and run like heck around the corner of the house, waiting for the inhabitants  to come to the door and find the May Day surprise we'd left for them.  Most of them opened the door and looked out and a scowl would form over their features right before they slammed the door.  It seemed, the Hickey kids had played this game one too many times without leaving a surprise.  But in the jubilant spirit of spring and the exuberance of youth, we persevered with the knocking and running until our beleaguered victim finally flung open the door to give chase.  It was then they would spot the dangling basket of posies.  I tell you, it would stop them in their tracks and we'd have to stifle our giggles as the angry expressions on their faces turned to chagrin and finally to a wistful nostalgia as they remembered their own days as marauding May Day basket hooligans.

By the time my boys were of appropriate age, the May Day basket tradition had been mostly abandoned and forgotten, but I decided to revive it.  On May first, I'd force them inside away from their games with the neighborhood kids and I'd sit them down with all the construction materials and they'd whine but then finally give in, I'm sure thinking the sooner they got the "stupid baskets" finished, the sooner they could go play.  Afraid not.  My yard was not as bounteous as my mother's in spring flowers, but I was not about to be thwarted.  (I'm pretty sure my unflagging enthusiasm for resurrecting this dead tradition was fueled by a couple of Jack Daniels and Diet Pepsi's) I'd have the boys pile into the car and we'd drive down the alleys of our local florists. The boys would cower in the backseat of the car in embarrassment as I dumpster dived for flowers whose stems were broken or whose petal's edges were just starting to turn brown.  The boys would stuff the bedraggled flowers into their "stupid" baskets and we'd ride off into the night in search of victims.  (They liked this part.)

Today is the first day of May, May Day, and several of my friends on the Moderation Management Mainlist are embarking on a 30 day abs period.  Today is Day 1, the most difficult day of all.  For today, that is.  Tomorrow, tomorrow will be the most difficult day of all.  It is woefully easy for me to look back and remember what got me through those first days of not drinking,  I was usually coming off of a bender, and sickeness, physical and spiritual sickness, is what fueled all the early days of abstinence for me.

I wish it hadn't been that way.  Instead I wish I could have laid careful plans for my first day and the days that followed.  I have often been asked how I quit drinking, the simple answer is, "I just quit drinking." but that is not the answer they're seeking, and it's not completely the truth.  "I just quit drinking." lots of times but "just not drinking" wasn't enough to keep me from drinking again.  What finally made me able to not drink again, was to find more and more things in my life that were more important than my drinking, and then I had to nourish them until I loved them enough to not want to see them suffer from the neglect and apathy that went hand in hand with my drinking.  It wasn't one single thing, it was a basketful.

So if I'd been lucky enough to start a 30 day abs period, or a forever abs period on May 1, without my usual hangover, I'd look at those 30 days as if they were a giant May Day Basket and I'd pack it full of things I could fall in love with. Writing, biking, gardening, knitting, painting, charity, my kids... are just a few of the things I might put in that basket.  If I ran out of things that I thought I could fall in love with, I'd go dumpster diving until I found something, even if I had to dig down to the very bottom past all kind of rotting stinking garbage, even if it's survival was doubtful.  Then I'd pour all my efforts into saving it.

That's what I'd do. I'd spend this month doing my damnedest to fall in love with something. Anything. Lots of things.   I'm sure, in the first few days, I'd be like my old neighbors and I'd keep  opening the door with a scowl to see nothing there, but  I'd keep answering that knock on the door until I found the gift that was waiting for me.   Just so that on May 30, if I'd tried my hardest, if I'd given my utmost best effort, I would be holding in my hands something precious, something that I loved more than drinking.

 Maybe more than one thing. 

Maybe a whole basketful of things.

Maybe just myself.

P.S. Best wishes for all you, MM May abser's, you can do this if you keep your basket full.  If any of you want to share what things you're finding to fall in love with along the way please tell us about it in the comments. In addition, if any of my fellow bloggers would like to share what got you through those first few days and weeks of abs, please do. 

A Salute To Bottoms

I don't measure a man's success by how high he climbs but how high he bounces when he hits bottom.

George S. Patton

I made some comments this weekend on message in a bottle's blog The Bubble that I feel I should apologize for, or at least try to explain.

Paul wrote about his experience in rehab and when he wrote about his physical withdrawal symptoms, I really identified with them.  Although I have met others, on various message boards and blogs that I follow, that have drank long enough and hard enough to build up a physical dependence and then suffer through the same resulting withdrawal symptoms that I suffered, the majority of the bloggers I follow seem to have experienced a softer bottom than I did.  Sometimes when I read those blogs, I can't relate, I find myself saying, "Really? You only drank one bottle of wine a night? What's the problem?"  I'm sure the writers of those blogs read my blog sometimes and say, "Jesus, why in the world would someone let booze control their life that long?  Didn't she care about her family? How could she let herself sink that low?"

A hard bottom is not a red badge of courage, nor is it a Scarlet Letter of Shame. It is what it is, a turning point.  The same can be said of a soft bottom.   I've often thought that having a soft bottom takes a lot more strength and willpower.  To me, it seems much easier to walk a way from a trainwreck of a life that has been "totaled" then to walk away from a life that is starting to show the wear and tear and collateral damage from alcohol.  It takes so much more fortitude to pull back on the reigns when you can see that you are heading into danger then to let go of the reigns and barrel ahead, seduced into thinking that what lies ahead isn't as bad as it seems, that the ride might be worth the fall.

But then again, what about the courage it takes to crawl out of the bottle long enough to see all the destruction that your drinking has wrought lying about you in smoldering ruins and not crawl back in?  To see drinking yourself to death as an easier alternative, but decide to do whatever it takes to get sober, even if it kills you.

I take back what I said about hard bottoms not being red badges of courage, they are.  And so are soft bottoms.  We are all courageous survivors of the same bloody war.

Thank God we bounced!

Spring

The robin and cardinal are quibbling among the sprouting green tops of the bulbs that were buried last fall in hopes of an April resurrection of swaying yellow daffodils, slender red tulips, and sweet hyacinths in every color of a sugared almond rainbow.  I point to the bickering pair through the window and she smiles wanly, a pale lemon sliver of sun behind the dark clouds of a gray Kansas afternoon sky, the kind of sky that heralds the devastation of a poker hand of natural disasters.  Young seedlings, barely taken root, torn from their holdings and pummeled flat by a relentless onslaught  or lifetimes swept away by the nonchalant flick of catastrophe's tail.

I want to tell her that I know how she feels, trying so hard to come out from behind her pain.

I spoon cereal into my grandson's mouth and wipe as half of it dribbles down his chin while I watch out of the corner of my eye as she scrambles the eggs that she intends to will herself to eat. Furiously resolute, the fork makes staccato taps against the bowl. Her shoulders are stooped and she is bent at the waist as if the stretch to full upright is too much to ask of her brittle carriage,  she might snap and crumble like the fall leaves that were forgotten in the backyard and now lay splayed like winter's fallen soldiers on the bright green patches of new grass.  Today she is wearing a paisley scarf, misshapen tear drops of turquoise and maroon swirl about her head.

I want to tell her that I, too, know what it feels like to go through the motions of doing what you have to do to make yourself well when everything in your body is screaming against it.

I strap my grandson into his stroller and take off down the sidewalk, my stepson and other grandson are  loading up the car to go to a' baseball game. I wave good-bye as they back out down the driveway. My grandson warbles and reaches for the red balloons tied to a neighbors mailbox, his chubby fingers curling and unfurling. Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

A family going through the rituals of spring on a Sunday morning.  Without her.  She is curled back in bed, the layers of quilts pulled up around her shoulders, her bare head a pale orb against her pillow in the dimness of the shuttered bedroom.

I want to tell her that I know how that feels too, to see everyone going about their lives, about your life, without you, while you watch, while you feel like you are dying.

But I say nothing and I go on my way through the neighborhood pushing my grandson in his stroller while tears roll down my face.  I cry tears of sadness, and gratitude and fear.  And shame.

I am ashamed for every time I've compared my alcoholism to cancer.  My daughter-in-law has poison pumped through her veins in a valiant attempt to save her life, to watch her children grow up, to grow old with her husband.  I willfully poured poison into my veins in a never ending quest for a "good time.", or to feel more at ease, to fit in, to relax, to celebrate a winning team, to mourn an unknown celebrity, because it tasted good with lasagna, because my friends expected me to, because I couldn't dance without it, because it rained, because it snowed, because the sun was shining, because someone made me mad, because someone made me sad, because I was mowing the grass, because I was laying by the pool, because I couldn't make a decision, because I deserved it, because I earned it, because everyone else was, because I was disappointed, because I was elated, because I was bored....

  I squandered precious years like they were pennies in a jar, not valuable enough to bother with.  Springs, summers, snowflakes, daffodils, baby's smiles, a five year old's goodnight kisses, a robin with a worm,  midnight thunderstorms, shooting stars falling from a predawn sky...Plenty of those to go around.

Unlike my daughter-in-law, I could have walked away at any time but I clung to my "disease" like a spoiled child with a favorite toy, whining when someone took it away from me, clinging to it like a grimy security blanket, it's threads seeped in disgrace and regret. I made all kinds of worthless excuses for my sickness and threw blame around like a frisbee.  Hands curling and unfurling around bottle after bottle.
 Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

I won't tell her I know what it's like.  It's not the same.  Not even.  I have no right to claim a fellowship with her.

I'm not even in her league.

Flight Cancelled

So I'm sitting here in a Denver Hotel when I'm supposed to be landing in KC in about 30 minutes to help with the grandkids.  Oh well, the best laid plans of man.  The cap'n just took off driving for OK to work, he's been up fidgeting and pacing since 6:00 am, as if that changes anything.  He has to be at work down in OK late Thursday afternoon and he could have well waited another day to take off but he couldn't stand it.  And he was driving me crazy.

I'm supposed to be able to catch a flight at 4:00 pm, but it's doubtful.  That's ok.  I don't want no pilot flying when he shouldn't be, I'm more apt to say, "Are you sure you want to fly today? I can wait."

I can wait.  That's something new I've learned in conjunction with sobriety, or because of it.

Things will happen as they're supposed to happen as long as I don't muddle in and fuck'em up.

I'm warm, I have enough cash to raid the vending machine, and enough credit on my credit card for another night in a hotel, if need be.

And I'm not worried if the liquor stores are open, or how I'm going to get to one.

Every little things gonna be alright.

P.S. I'm at the airport now and I just finished an $8.00 Triple Dip Ben and Jerrys Mint Chocolate Chunk Ice Cream cone in a Chocolate Dipped with Sprinkles Waffle Cone and as I'm walking through the airport licking this thing, I'm wondering if a 51 year old chick can still manage to look obscene eating an ice cream cone.  I did notice one guy eyeing me, he was even drooling.  Of course, he was being pushed by airport personnel in a wheelchair. I think he was salivating over my cone.  lol  

Hey, at least it wasn't a mug of beer! 

Neighbor Kary May's Radio Show: Guest Speaker; The Husband Of A Survivor

Not my porch, but it sure makes you want to come "sit a spell", don't it?  I'm back in CO and getting settled back in. I'm so glad to be home!  I love Mexico but this is "home".  Unfortunately, the cap'n has the exact opposite feeling.  We'd probably rich by now if both of us weren't so stubborn about maintaining our individual homes.  Oh well, we'll scratch by a little longer.

 Some of you may remember way back when, when I was still trying to moderate, I would reserve Saturdays to try and forget that I had a drinking problem. One way I do this was by holding Neighbor Kary May's Radio Show and I'd gab on about anything and everything but my drinking.  Neighbor Kary May's Radio Show never got very high ratings and I decided to pull it off the air, but this Saturday I decided it needed a revival.  I no longer have to reserve Saturdays to act like I'm not a drunk, because I ain't anymore.  The longer I'm sober, the further and further I move into the "real" world, meeting people and hearing their stories of struggle that have nothing whatsoever to do with drinking, but everything to do with survival.  We know a thing or two about surviving, don't we?

I'm not sure how Cameron found my blog, but a couple of weeks ago he sent me the story of his and his wife's struggle and triumph over cancer.  It doesn't matter how he found me, what matters is that he did, and at a time when I most needed to hear his story. I no longer believe that anything happens by accident and I know that all the things we need will find their way to us when it's time.   I'll be going to help my daughter-in-law who is under going chemotherapy next week and I'll be carrying Cameron and his wife's story a long with me.  Thank you, Cameron, but I want to hear more, I want to hear your stories, your stories of despair and how you found hope shining in the darkest corners.  I want to hear about every person that held you up when you couldn't stand on your own anymore.  I want to hear how you kept up the facade of strength for your wife when you were crumbling inside. I'm a big champion of blogs and I think you should write one because a lot of people need to hear your story. There are probably a lot of blogs written by people who are battling cancer and people who have survived cancer, but I bet there aren't enough blogs written by the people who are holding their hands through it all.  The husband of one of my friends who is a breast cancer survivor says, "It's not only the patient who gets cancer."  Just like it's not only the alcoholic who suffers the effects of the disease.

Thank you Cameron for working so hard to get your message of hope out to the ones that need to hear it.  We know a little bit about that too.

Ladies and Gentlemen may I present Cameron!

A Hard Fought Battle with Cancer

My world was shattered on November 21, 2005, the day my wife Heather was diagnosed with malignant pleural mesothelioma.  It was the day I became more than a husband and a father to a 3-month-old daughter.  I became a caregiver to my precious wife, and together we began a long and difficult journey to save her life.

We were the proud parents of lovely newborn Lily, both of us employed at jobs we enjoyed, in a home we had built together.  Now, all of that was at risk -- my Heather could die and I would be left alone, my daughter left motherless.  After we received the diagnosis, we were given a handful of treatment options that might be able to help Heather.  Of all the options presented to us, one in particular stood out.  It was a doctor in Boston named David Sugarbaker, who specialized in treating this rare and deadly cancer.  The choice was easy, and I told the doctor to get us to Boston as soon as possible.

From that point forward, our lives were chaotic. Heather was unable to work, and I had to scale back to part time in order to care for her.  Our schedules revolved around doctor appointments, traveling to and from Boston and taking care of Lily.  We lost all semblance of the life we had known, now warriors against an invisible and destructive enemy.   

I was lost, unsure how to balance the demands of a household, a young child, a seriously ill wife and a job.  My new responsibilities, coupled with the crushing fears and anxiety over what could happen weighed me down more and more each day, and I quickly became overwhelmed.  Luckily, I found out quickly that I did not need to fight this battle alone.

In an answer to prayers, family, friends and even strangers offered everything from kind words of encouragement to desperately needed financial help.  Suddenly lots of people were fighting for us, a consequence of my willingness (in spite of my pride) to say "yes" when asked if I needed help.  I cannot express what it meant to have so many be concerned for Heather, Lily and me.  Our lives,  despite the horrors of Heather's illness, were enriched by having supporters in our fight against it.  

The kindness of these people led me to believe in the impossible, to face that which I thought I couldn't and to reach beyond myself when consumed with fear.  

Over the following months, Heather would undergo many difficult treatments in the attempt to rid her body of cancer.  She would have surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments, and in the end with the help of our friends and family she was able to defy the odds against her.  She has been cancer free for over six years. 

Now, over seven years after her heartbreaking mesothelioma diagnosis, we’d like to share our story in the attempt to inspire hope in all those still fighting their cancer battles today.  Never give up hope, and never stop fighting for the ones you love.