autumn, aught-seven

It occurs to me that I've been on my own longer than I ever lived at home -- a fact that's been quietly slipping past. I think back to the girl I was when I moved here in June 1990. I lived with my grandparents before I moved into the college dorm. I worked as a cashier at K-Mart for $7 an hour, paid in cash every other Friday. In my spare time, my grandfather would drop me off at the Stratford Square mall, or I played with my young cousins (who lived downstairs), or I walked to my aunt's house a block away, where I pretended I knew enough to talk about the fall of the Berlin Wall and communism and political philosophy. I still had a Texas accent. I craved such things as matching bedspread sets and pink nail polish and designer jeans and a cute boyfriend. The worst things I ever did were snatching Bonne Bell lip gloss from work, stealing change from my grandmother's purse, or going to my aunt's when I knew she wouldn't be home, which meant I could visit this very cute and slightly older boy who lived next door and would play songs on his guitar for me and once opened the door in his underwear, a fact I found equally embarrassing and titillating.

It's easy to dwell on how quickly and seamlessly that girl was replaced by someone completely foreign: a person whose worst things involved all sorts of unmentionables much less innocent and much more life-threatening than pilfering through her grandmother's things or nurturing benign crushes on older boys. It's equally easy to search for answers -- why was it so easy to give up on myself? -- but seeking isn't the same thing as finding. I'm exhausted from asking those questions. And so as mid-life (so to speak) begins, I need to say goodbye to the girl I was six thousand yesterdays ago. I think she would appreciate that.

the day = my age

This morning a "new" teacher -- probably twice my age -- observed my class, and the entire time her affect was like that of a seven-month old baby seeing bubbles for the first time. She was oohing and aahing and even bounced in her seat and clapped her hands very much like a seal a few times. She's coming back on Thursday and I almost feel as though I should bring a rattle and teething biscuits, that's how baby-like she was.

***

In my mail today: the latest issue of Poets and Writers, which I've been hiding under my bed for the past few months, since it reminds me of all the things I'm not doing. Yeah, whatever, I'm blogging -- but that doesn't count. The last time I perused the classified ads of P&W (April?) was pure torture. I think the worst thing that can happen to an undermotivated cash strapped writer is to be confronted with dozens -- maybe even hundreds! -- of writing opportunities that would only be available if one were to, well, start writing. I'd rather be a Type I diabetic chocolate addict forced to work in the Fannie May factory for eternity.

So it was with trepidation that I forced myself to look through the latest ads, and even then it was out of embarrassment. I was hanging out with W. at The Boring Store for this NaNoWriMo workshop they're having for the kids, and one of the volunteers saw me with P&W and asked if I were a writer and -- being ten -- W. said, Yes, she is, and she's working on two books and has had essays published in a bunch of places. Damn kid!

I was shamed into pretending I'm still a writer, though at this point it feels like something I used to do out of sheer boredom and naïveté, just like when I was 14 I'd cut myself at slumber parties or when I was 19 I'd take speed to stay up for three days straight and would smoke a pack of cigarettes in an hour and never feel a thing. But whatever. In ten minutes I found a half-dozen calls for submissions asking for things exactly like what I've been writing lately anyway. (Little known secret: when I'm up at 4am and not working, I'm writing. It's what I do when I'm procrastinating about what I should be doing.) I never thought I'd feel grateful for embarrassment.

***

But before The Boring Store, I was at Walgreens and as I was walking in I saw J. locking up his bike, which made me walk faster hoping he didn't see me. And when I went to look for mouthwash, he was looking at toothpaste, so I made a U-turn and ended up by the hemorrhoid cream, which is where I literally bumped into him, quite nearly breaking my nose on his chin (after which he, uh, shook my hand). I don't know why I was so scared to see him, other than he was one of the last of the drunken canoodlings I had this summer & he's been so gracious about things the last couple times I've seen him -- at Wicker Park Fest, then at Cal's when I went to see his band play -- and I've been left feeling like a complete ass, especially after he called and gave the most heart-felt apology for being a guy that I've ever received in my life.

He's funny and sarcastic and he wavers on the edge of "interesting looking" and "fabulously attractive" and we get along marvelously and we talked for a good 20 minutes and we even joked around about how neither one of us really gets the whole Halloween costume thing. Yeah, he said, I'll go to the parties but it's just to get drunk and stoned, and then the whole thing fell apart and whereas a total of four seconds earlier I'd been thinking, maybe there could eventually be something there with this guy, it all disappeared and I had a minor (ok, not-so-minor) panicky feeling that I will never again have sex before I'm 50. Or, gasp, possibly even 60. He said he'd call, but I don't even care.

***

After The Boring Store, W. and I went to see The Quiltmaker's Gift at the Athaeneum Theatre on Southport. The author of the book was there for opening night, and even though the seats were, uh, in an odd state of disrepair, leaving us feeling as though we were not only watching a play but also on a roller coaster ride, it was a fabulous production, and I was subtly crying by the end. This guy who had to be 50 if he were a day crawled over seats to sit next to me and chatted me up before and after the show and asked me for my number. I gave him my (work) email address -- hey, I was there in a professional capacity -- but won't respond if he does contact me. He was very much like Mr. Big (the character, not my friend) and apparently has two teen-age kids, but if I'm certain of anything right now, it's that the last thing in the world I need is to be swept off my feet by a single dad Mr. Big type who drives a fast (expensive) car and would likely have no problem funding my obsession with Christopher Blue jeans and stiletto heels. And the second-to-last thing I need is to get involved with anyone.

my jesus day

The past 36 hours have been intolerable. I feel as though I'm in a time-travel movie in which I fell asleep Saturday and woke up Sunday back in my first week of sobriety, when all I could do was think about how miserable my life was. Last night, crying on the phone to L., she said, you should be grateful that you don't have the urge to drink. My response, which I think quite clever, albeit less than sane: Maybe that means I'm not really an alcoholic. Can I quit going to meetings now?

After an intense tear-saturated therapy session today that left me certain I belonged in the Dysfunctional People Special Olympics, I found myself praying in the handicapped stall of the women's bathroom. I can't remember how I got there -- it's all fuzzy, which I blame entirely on the massive amount of snot backed up into the frontal parietal lobe of my brain from all the crying -- but it was a compulsion to get on my knees and rest my elbows on the icky germy toilet and just close my eyes and cry (sob, really) and ask for relief. My grandmother better be a damn strong woman, because I'm asking her for a hell of a lot.

I don't know what day 33 is supposed to look like, but I never imagined it would be like this.

defining grace

Since reading Anne Lamott's Salon.com essay on her god-box, I've been revisiting her work. As a writer (and a teacher of writing), I've of course read Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, part of which ("Shitty First Drafts") has become a seminal essay in my classrooms. But I've largely pushed aside her other nonfiction, most of which deals with (in one way or another) her alcoholism and her faith. I'd always figured I had no use for spirituality and even less for drunkalogs, so why bother? Lately, though, for obvious reasons, I've felt drawn to her work.

In Lincoln Square this afternoon for its Halloween Happenings event and waiting for M. and her crew to meet us at Garcia's, B. and I hopped into The Book Cellar, where I set about looking for Lamott's books. I found Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year, which I'd first heard about in a writing workshop with Luis Urrea, where he told me that my writing and its themes reminded him of Lamott's work, and he suggested I pick up a copy of Operating Instructions. [He'd also recommended Running With Scissors on similar grounds, so I was a bit embarrassed that my life was so obviously and pathetically bizarre and out-of-sorts.] Yeah, whatever. I was a mother, but that's where I believed the similarities ended between me and some drunk talking about having a baby and dealing with god stuff. Fuck you, I thought. I'm not getting that book.

Today, though, I got the book. It was the only Lamott they had in stock, in fact. Even though the last time I'd been there (Day Four, for anyone who's counting), she'd been everywhere (I remember that distinctly, because it annoyed me), there was none. I ended up special-ordering three of her other books (Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith, Plan B: Some Further Thoughts on Faith, and Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith) on a hunch that it wasn't any accident that Luis told me -- almost four years ago now -- to read what Lamott had to say.

Later, I decided to read up on Grace (Eventually) on Amazon.com and I came across an interview with Lamott in which she talked about her understanding of grace. She said, in part:

Grace is that extra bit of help when you think you are really doomed; also, not coincidentally, when you have finally run out of good ideas on how to proceed, and on how better to control the people or circumstances that are frustrating or defeating you. I experience Grace as a cool ribbon of fresh air when I feel spiritually claustrophobic. Sometimes I experience it as water-wings, something holding me up when I am afraid that I'm going down, or the tide is carrying me away. I know that Grace meets us wherever we are, but does not leave us where it found us. Sometimes it is so small--a couple of seconds relief here, several extra inches there. I wish it were big and obvious, like sky-writing. Oh, well. Grace is not something I DO, or can chase down; but it is something I can receive, when I stop trying to be in charge.

When I read that, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I knew exactly what she meant, and it astonished me. What struck me particularly was the idea that grace "does not leave us where it found us." If that isn't what I've experienced over the past 31 days, I don't know what it is. I think about the person I was when I went to my first meeting (a decision that shocks me in retrospect). I absolutely felt "doomed" at that point. I had "run out of good ideas on how to proceed." I had given up all hope of being able to control situations that were defeating me. Perhaps I never had that low-bottom drunk experience, but I had an emotional low-bottom, a point where I'd tried everything I could and none of it was working and I thought, Why not try the program? I knew the only other option was to go back to making all of the bad mistakes I'd always made (including drinking -- a lot, and in scary ways), so I took a leap of faith -- quite possibly the only healthy one I've made in my lifetime.

The minute I stepped into that church basement a month ago, I stopped chasing and started receiving. Here I am, 31 days later, and I couldn't be more grateful that grace met me where I was. I am even more grateful she has carried me this far. Namaste.

day 28

Things that are pissing/have pissed me off today

1. The weather tonight was horrid for being in the park.
2. I almost got run over (twice) today.
3. There are only 24 hours in a day.
4. I need more than three hours of sleep per night.
5. There's too much work to do.
6. I have to grade 54 papers by 11am tomorrow.
7. Tomorrow's lesson plan is yet unwritten.
8. This whole twisted situation with A. and W. is becoming intolerable, making me want to be three years old again, at which point throwing a temper tantrum and throwing things would be perfectly acceptable.
   
9. Paying $1400 a month in rent and still living in a studio apartment because A. (so far) makes all kinds of excuses not to leave the house.
   
10. Making payments on a car I drive maybe 10% of the time.
11. My cat just bit me on my elbow.
12. W. lied to me about his history work.
13. My neighbor is having really loud sex right now.
14. Someone across the courtyard is blasting Latino music.
15. I'm 34 years old and I'm still in transition to adulthood.
16. I make more money than 78% of the population but live paycheck to paycheck.
17. I'm on the way to eating my third chocolate bar of the day.
18. My landlord hasn't turned the heat on yet.
    
19. I have to take the train to Wheaton (aka hell) on Friday.
    
20. I'm hungry and don't want to cook but also don't feel like spending money on pizza delivery.
    

OK. Pause. Relax. Take a deep breath. Make a gratitude list. Pray. (All the things L. would tell me if she were here to whack me upside the head, which she probably wouldn't do anyhow because she's not like me in that way, or at least she hasn't presented herself to be that way as of yet.)

But... I don't want to write a fucking prayer or a gratitude list. I want to revert to three-year-old behavior and throw things. Which I could do, if there were anything left in this room to throw on a whim. But no... I had to be all responsible and clean my fucking apartment and there is nothing left to hurl, unless you count my laptop, and I'm not so angry and irrational that I'd do that (though I do have one of those Dell warranties that covers EVERYTHING that can possibly go wrong, including spilling coffee on my keyboard and, I imagine, getting angry and stomping up and down on the darn thing).

But... because I know L. reads this blog & I'll hear about it if I leave now, with the urge to destroy shit, I'll do it... though I want to make it clear that I do not want to do this in the least. In fact, I'd rather run naked down Wilson Avenue right now than write a gratitude list or a prayer, but since that would involve leaving my apartment, that's not going to happen, either.

I am grateful for/that...

1. M. continues to be my best cheerleader.
2. I did not get run over today.
3. I was able to be honest today at Target, when the cashier didn't charge me for something, and I pointed it out to her.
4. I ate dinner with the boys for the 3rd night in a row.
5. L., J., A., M., and possibly V. are going to celebrate my 30-days with me on Friday.
   
6. I did not drink today.
   
7. I was able to see M. and M. at the park for half an hour before it got too cold to stay.
   
8. My apartment is still clean.
   
9. I am able to get by on much less sleep than other people when necessary.
   
10. I have the kind of class where I can show videos and discuss them when I can't come up with a lesson plan that I like.
    
11. Vegan chocolate bars are plentiful.
    
12. I have a place to live.
    
13. I have groceries in the house.
    
14. My landlord allows me to pay rent late all the time and never charges me a late fee.
    
15. I can usually work at home in my pajamas if I want.
    
16. L. and A. for telling me I'm doing a good job, even when it feels like I'm failing miserably.
    
17. I have an electric blanket.
    
18. I can choose whether to stay up late tonight or tomorrow.
19. I will be able to go to a meeting tomorrow.
20. I am healthy and tumor-free.

With that, I'm off to make something to eat, take a bath, and make darn good use of my god-box this evening. Namaste.

an average tuesday, but day 27, so not so average

Be studious in your profession, and you will be learned. Be industrious and frugal, and you will be rich. Be sober and temperate, and you will be healthy. Be in general virtuous, and you will be happy. At least you will, by such conduct, stand the best chance for such consequences.

-- Benjamin Franklin

Slept a little less than four hours last night after getting to sleep a smidge before 5am. It's crunch time at work and I'm not exactly liking it. Tonight will be another near-all-nighter, but at least I'm able to sleep in my bed again, having recovered it in yesterday's clothing excavation. I didn't make it to a meeting today, and I won't make it to one tomorrow, but I did spend an hour this evening on my first-step homework. I made my bed this morning, and I just finished washing the day's dishes. I'm learning how to clean up after myself and keep things in order. I'm beginning to enjoy calm more than chaos. I'm not spending money in the same ways. I'm spending more time than ever with the boys. I have an appointment to talk with A. about our living situation, and I am no longer worried my problems with him are insurmountable. I am continuing to do, as they say, the next right thing. And, also, I've made myself a god-box. Yes, change is in the air. Namaste.

living in the moment

The reason people find it so hard to be happy is that they always see the past better than it was, the present worse than it is, and the future less resolved than it will be.

--Marcel Pagnol

For months, my front closet has been unusable, filled with empty boxes from when I moved in. More junk has accumulated there since then -- stacks of unwanted mail, outdated departmental memos, old magazines, scrap paper, any non-perishable garbage I've been too lazy to take out. At the same time, over the past few weeks, my clothes have migrated from my closet to my beds, my couch, the top of the radiator, my kitchen table, any horizontal surface available. Today, in a fit of productivity (or out of an urge to avoid grading papers), I tackled my closets and my clothes -- and I inadvertently learned a lesson.

A. tells me that her first sponsor gave her the following advice: Never go to sleep with dirty dishes in the sink and always make your bed in the morning. For someone like me, that's a Herculean task. I still have a pot on the stove that hasn't been washed since I used it in early August. I did, however, catch up on all my other dishes yesterday, which felt good and spurred me on to get a ton of work done by the time I went to bed last night. And today, when I got home from therapy, I decided I couldn't stand for one more minute to see my clothes strewn about, and I set to work.

After I cleared out most all of the garbage (the janitor, who is in his 60s, carries it all down from my floor, and I didn't want to give him too much at once), I set about with the clothes -- and promptly started panicking. One of the things I was trying to do was put aside the clothes I don't wear, some of which I've never worn since I first purchased. And some of them were expensive -- the $160 jeans I bought on eBay (only realizing later that I'd bid on the wrong size); the Badgley Mischka dress I've been holding onto for seven years now; lots of Anthropologie stuff that looked good on the rack but has been sitting in my closet with the tags still on. My first instinct was, I should list all these things on eBay, followed by I don't even have time to wash the pot that's been sitting on my stove for two months! When will I ever have time to list anything on eBay?, quickly followed by Damnit! I'll just Freecycle all of it!, and then But I'll lose hundreds of dollars! Of course, I was paralyzed by my thinking and quite nearly broke down amidst my $160 jeans, beaded dresses, and tweed pants (when have I ever worn tweed? what was I thinking?).

But then, a realization: Why did I need to focus on the past (the money I'd spent + the fact that I hadn't worn many of the clothes)? And what good did it do to worry about the future (what to do with the clothes + losing money if I made the wrong choice)? In the present moment, I needed to put away my clothes, set aside the ones that didn't fit, and do what needed to be done for my life today. And so I put away the useful clothes, and put the others in a box, where they can sit until I have the time and energy necessary to deal with them. Yes, it is a problem, but it isn't one I had to figure out today.

And as all these things are coming to me -- doing the dishes, cleaning out closets, putting away clothes -- it occurs to me that today I am happy. Almost nothing in my life is resolved, and I know for sure that there are many obstacles on the road ahead of me, the least of which is straightening out my financial/living situation, but I also know that I'm doing what I can -- today, in the present -- to fix the things I can, to solve the problems I can handle, and to do the work necessary to make sure I'm OK for now.

Lots of things are fitting together and beginning to make sense in a way that surprises me. Earlier today, I was thinking how I've always believed something my mother used to say: Everything has a way of working itself out. And that's true, but I've used that bromide as a means of allowing myself to do some pretty stupid stuff: stay in bad relationships, misbehave, spend too much money, neglect my health and psyche, lose sight of my goals and dreams. Today, it occurred to me that the bromide isn't a Get out of Trouble Free card -- it isn't at all a promise that no matter how much I fuck things up, I'll get out of the jam. Even though that's what's happened in the past -- A. has often laughed at how the universe throws me bones when I need them most -- I don't see that phrase in the same way now. No longer is it a mental safety net that allows me to make foolish decisions; rather, it is a truth about the universe: I don't have to solve all of my problems today, because they will get worked out eventually.

And so as I get ready to grade those papers (ugh) into the wee hours of the night, I'm putting all my thoughts and worries aside -- in a mental box not unlike the physical one in which I placed unwanted clothes -- to deal with when the time is right. Tonight, I have faith in the future without anxiety about getting there. Which makes me very, very happy.

day 25

When you have come to the edge of all light that you know and are about to drop off into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing one of two things will happen: there will be something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly.

-- Patrick Overton

Every time I talk with her, L. tells me the same thing: You're doing a great job and you don't need to be doing anything else except praying. And I roll my eyes and I begin that procrastination thing again. The universe be damned, I say. But then...well, then things start clicking in my mind and a woman I met tonight (who was at her first meeting ever) calls me -- ME, of all people who were on her list of phone numbers to call, because she thought I would be able to help.

***

Saturday's Hazelden email included a Rita Mae Brown quotation that's been sticking in my head:

A controller doesn't trust his/her ability to live through the pain and chaos of life. There is no life without pain just as there is no art without submitting to chaos.

I've been thinking about it a lot, since last week's therapy session focused, in part, on how difficult it is to stop taking care of other people. It isn't that I want to be in control over other people's lives, or that I necessarily need or want to help them manage their affairs; rather, I am afraid that if I let go, there will be no one there to take care of me, and I will die, spiritually if not physically.

I don't know that I'll ever believe in the sort of god other people believe in, but right now -- today -- I do believe that there is something -- and a lot of someones -- in between letting go and death. Every day for the past six days, something has happened when I've felt at my worst -- random comments from strangers, text messages out of the blue, songs coming on the radio, this call from this new person -- that has kept me sober. I don't believe, as some people might, that these things are part of a divine plan. I do, however, believe these things are collectively a wake-up call for me: they are things that have always been there -- kind strangers, caring friends, meaningful songs, fellow travelers who seek connection -- that I've been ignoring all along.

Faith isn't necessarily believing in god or a divine plan. It can also be tapping into the things in the universe that have always been there and trusting that if I let go, I will not fall, because there are people who simply won't let that happen. Tonight, I will listen to L. and I will pray before I go to bed. I don't know if I will be taught to fly or if there will be something to stand upon, but I have faith that someone will show me the way, and it is no longer a path I have to seek in a solitary manner, in the dark. Namaste.

saturday night's all right with me

After a three-hour program workshop that helped in some ways & angered me in others, M., W., and I headed downtown with the kiddos to check out Chicagoween. If you haven't been, GO! The Midnight Circus is spectacular, and even if all the seats are taken, there's something darn cool about sliding down the Picasso sculpture en masse. I took a lot of pictures, but since it was so dark out, not a whole bunch turned out. Some, however, did:

Everyone except me, since I was taking the photo...

B. & D. in front of Rock Records

B. sliding down the Picasso sculpture

W. sliding down the Picasso sculpture

It was a grand time -- I don't think I've ever taken the kids downtown just to hang out. The weather was nice, the crowd wasn't too large, and what could have been chaos -- dozens of kids sliding down a huge sculpture -- was remarkably enjoyable, with many older kids helping younger ones and working together to have fun. Last night I was thinking of how many times people are shocked when they find out I moved back INTO the city to make a better life for my children. The suburbs just aren't for us, and last night was just another small reminder of just how happy I am to have found where I belong -- and with whom: my children and my friends, leaving behind all those people whose goal was to bring me down, when what I've needed is some lifting up. Namaste.

heading into my fourth week...

I've been feeling weird lately, as though I'd almost grasped of something which then slipped through my fingers. It isn't that I'm feeling negative, per se -- just that I can't quite force myself to think positively. Some little things help -- the meeting at the Y, where J. again told me he's proud of me and I'm doing a good job & V. gave me a big hug and congratulated me on 22 days; taking myself out to dinner and a movie (Gone Baby Gone is quite well done, btw); making plans to take the boys to Chicagoween tomorrow night -- but they are just that: little things.

I keep complaining to L. that I don't feel right, and what she tells me to do -- pray some more -- is the one thing I'm resisting. And not even really resisting; I'm procrastinating. Yes, the one thing my sponsor tells me will help me, and I keep telling myself, oh, you can get to that later. I feel like the world's worst sponsee, even though I suppose it could be worse: I could be getting drunk and calling her at 3am crying.

But whatever. After the meeting, getting on the "L" to head north, I got a text from M., who has been a godsend to me over the past few months. Without her in my life, I most certainly would have either killed myself or drunk myself to death in June. When D. walked out on me in late May, leaving me with all sorts of complicated things to sort out, she was there for me every step of the way -- taking time off of work to help me, texting me every day to make sure I was okay, listening to me cry for what seemed like forever almost any time I needed it. Anyhow, her text:

Hey, I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you and how hard the choice must have been to give up drinking -- something you've been accustomed to for a long time. That's a huge change and I'm really proud of you. You are such an inspiration. It's not easy at all, and you're doing it! Huge hugs.

Every day, when things are so difficult that I believe I won't make it through to the next day, something unexpected carries me on. Whether it's stumbling into a meeting where I hear what I needed to hear, getting hugs and kind words from people I associate mostly with D., a random stranger in a bar reminding me how much is at stake, or a text message filled with love and support from a close friend, I'm beginning to think that the universe is praying for me until I'm ready to take on that job for myself.

how not to stay sober

Last night, I met up for a friend's birthday celebration at a local bar, and two of my 30-day friends were there. Of course, I felt like a dorky messenger from the program as I talked with them about having gone to 20 meetings in 22 days -- including two on Wednesday -- and gulped down Shirley Temples while they casually sipped cranberry and tonic. One of my friends -- who makes jewelry -- gave me some 12-step prayer beads, meant to be used during meditation and prayer, and they were beautiful. They have a charm on them with an inscription of the serenity prayer, and she put them in this little bag so I can carry them around with me. It's the most meaningful gift I've received in a long time.

After we'd been there for a while, one of the 30-day friends ordered a non-alcoholic beer and the other followed suit. It reminded me of the meeting on Monday, where someone mentioned going into a bar and drinking a non-alcoholic beer, and the room bristled as people thought, Uh, there's still alcohol in non-alcoholic beer... And of course I mentioned this to them, but neither really cared -- it's only 0.5%, after all (even the bartender mentioned this and laughed).

Soon after the non-alcoholic beer (and my 2nd Shirley Temple) were served, a guy sitting by us asked why we weren't drinking for 30 days. After I quickly noted that *I* am not drinking for, well, forever, my one friend said, Because we do really stupid and embarrassing things when we drink. The guy -- whom I probably should have kissed for his response -- said, Well, won't you just do more stupid and embarrassing things after the 30 days are up? I think that was another one of my god moments -- this random stranger saying something I really needed to hear in a situation that could well have been gone in a completely different direction. I went home sober and grateful for the ability to walk away from a bar, knowing that nothing will change unless I make it happen.

spooky stories no. 1

He's no Edgar Allen Poe, but I love B. just the same. The video is dark because we'd turned most of the lights out for the "spooky" effect. Enjoy!

spooky stories no. 2

And here is W. doing his spooky story, rife with aliens (also rather dark)...

turning "21"

Somehow I managed to make it to two meetings today, despite it being the busiest day of my week -- filled with a conference call (in which I participated from the Brown Line "L"), traipsing downtown with W., taking a break to eat lunch at Flat Top Grill, editing the S.D. newsletter & revising my own, watching the kids so A. could go to work. Going into the morning meeting, I was fine, riding the high of the past couple of days, forgetting how L. told me that when things are the best is when we need meetings the most. By late afternoon, I felt my reserves draining altogether, and so instead of heading to the park with M., I called her up and asked if she could take B. so I could hit a meeting. And that's what I did.

There were several people at the meeting with less sobriety: someone on his 8th day, a woman on her 5th, another woman on day 28, yet another on day 12 for the 11th time this year. The focus was on the third step, and we talked about issues of spirituality and what kept us coming back. At some point during that hour, after glancing over at the woman on her 5th day, I remembered something I'd heard at the Monday meeting a couple of weeks ago: just by following the proscription to keep coming back, we've already started taking that third step.

I started to wonder, though, why do I keep coming back? To be blunt, my first meeting sucked. My second meeting scared me. My third one -- which I attended with L. and one of my 30-day friends -- was okay, but it was still an experiment, a tentative declaration. As of today, I've been to 19 meetings in 21 days -- not bad for someone who works 60 hours a week -- and I have fully accepted and embraced the work necessary with step one, but I have no recollection whatsoever of any point at which I felt any transition from the "the program as something that might work" to "things I need to do to stay alive." Every single day, there are moments when I have no idea how I will work through the next five minutes of my life, but it always happens. The next five minutes always come, and I am still here, and I am still sober, despite the odds.

Tonight, I remembered what my day five felt like, and I couldn't help but think that this day -- day 21 -- is my miracle.

the big 2-0

Day 20 has gone remarkably well, and even though it's not an official milestone, somehow it feels really important. I had a good conversation last night with A., today L. told me she can sense a difference in me already, I went out to dinner with the boys tonight, and I've generally just been happy and feeling content. I'm also, though, super-aware that it's when I'm feeling the best that I need to be most vigilant about keeping on track, so I'll be hitting a meeting tomorrow morning. Namaste!

eighteen, going on nineteen

I woke up today without any power, two hours later than I'd planned (uh, my alarm clock runs on electricity). That sucked, but I felt such a sense of relief that I hadn't succumbed to my I'm going out drinking and I'm not even going to tell L. I'm thinking about it urges the night before, because if I'd gotten drunk, I would have been too tired (and possibly too hung over) to wake up naturally; I would have been late picking B. up for his birthday celebration (if I'd gotten there at all); and once I did arrive and drive downtown in a less-than-ideal state, I would have had a headache and been too crabby, tired, and insufferable to enjoy the festivities. And I would have done all of this on my son's 5th birthday. I felt like I'd woken up being smacked in the face by gratitude itself.

That being said, I'm guessing non-dysfunctional people who wake up to no power don't immediately wonder whether the electric company has finally caught up to their shifty pattern of non-payment under the guise of forgetfulness. [I'm happy to report that I've since learned ComEd that doesn't disconnect for non-payment on Sundays...]

more choices...

Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose.

--Tennessee Williams

Sometimes it takes time with old friends to remember how far I've come, and tonight was no exception. I spent most of the evening with Mr. Big & a friend of his from Denver, whom I'd met seven or eight years ago at one of the yearly philosophy conferences we all used to attend -- and I realized a few things in the process:

1. I can't remember what I was like before I met Mr. Big; I know I was 25 at the time, I thought he was gay (not for the reasons you may think), I was just about to move to Wisconsin, W. (who is now ten) wasn't even two years old yet, and I was still married. I've known him half of my adult life, but it feels like a lifetime.

2. I've changed a heck of a lot. Mile High Guy* mentioned I seemed calmer than when he'd last seen me. Funny thing is that most of the time, I still feel like the same unfocused and frantic lost soul as I was when I first moved to Chicago more than 17 years ago. Looking back, he's probably right -- but, also, as he mentioned over late-night food at the Pick Me Up Cafe, it could just be that I'm getting old(er).

3. There are some people from the past around whom it will be easy to stay sober, and with others it will be rather difficult. And I think Mr. Big's one of the easy ones (uh, no double entendre intended) in that regard. And that makes me very, very happy.

4. I've missed hanging out with Mr. Big and his friends -- it was good to talk about theatre & other miscellaneous things with Mile High Guy tonight, and even though I have engaged in much foolish (and retrospectively extremely embarrassing) canoodling with many Friends of Mr. Big, there is an atmosphere of forgiveness for my stupidity and that feels good. (Are some men just more accepting of asinine behavior?)

5. There are still lots of things I don't like about myself, but that's okay. I have friends who aren't going anywhere, and they're more forgiving of me than I am of myself. Mr. Big commented that I have no fear about saying things that embarrass people, and I pointed out that's only true when I'm drinking (or, uh, thinking alcoholically). His response: I guess I thought that's just how you were. And maybe two weeks ago (or two days ago) my reaction would have been Ugh. Yet another person who thinks I've fucked everything up, but tonight my thought was, Imagine how great my life can be if I can fix all the harm I've done.

My (abbreviated) gratitude list for the evening, then: I am grateful for my friends, especially the ones who have known me through half an adulthood filled with mistakes, embarrassments, and bad judgment but continue to show me love and acceptance because (I hope?) they can see things in me that I cannot.

PS -- Mile High Guy had me freaking out that Mr. Big was thus named on Sex and the City because he, uh, was well-endowed, and since I didn't want anyone thinking that MY Mr. Big is thus named for the same reason (since, uh, I have no clue as to ANYTHING about his endowment), I did some research. I am relieved to learn that the Chris Noth character's moniker had nothing to do with the size of his genitalia. Whew.

* Previously known as The Denver Friend.

living through

You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

--Eleanor Roosevelt

Twenty-one is the natural number between 20 and 22. We live in the 21st century, and Century 21 is a department store situated next to Ground Zero. The 21st Amendment repealed Prohibition. I bought my black patent leather stilettos at the Forever 21 store in midtown Manhattan. There are 21 spots on a standard cubical dice. Royalty and leaders of countries are saluted with 21 guns at their funerals. Johnny Depp's breakout came on 21 Jump Street. Number 21 is the name of a plane (allegedly) flown by Gustave Whitehead two years before the Wright Brothers flew at Kitty Hawk. Duncan MacDougall argued that 21 grams is the weight of the soul, a research finding generally dismissed as bunk. The British version of A Clockwork Orange ended on Chapter 21. Twenty-one is a Fibonacci number, a triangular number, a composite number (with divisors of 1, 3, and 7), an octagonal number, a repdigit in base 4 (111), and the smallest number of differently sized squares needed to square the square.

Tomorrow, 21 will also be the number of days since I stopped to look fear in the face and, in doing so, reclaimed my life.

recommendation

If you haven't yet seen The Boondocks, where the hell have YOU been? I first heard of the show this summer, when I was hanging out with P. -- he thought it was hilarious and introduced me to it, and since then I've been singing its praises. This is, by far, the most subversive television show dealing with racial issues since Sanford and Son. Catch it Monday nights at 10:30pm CST, during Adult Swim on the Cartoon Network. Yay!

exhaustion sets in

Last night, N. showed up to our movie smelling like a distillery. And one of my friends who started "a 30-day break" the same day I entered the program drank last night. Both events pissed me off, then made me jealous, followed by an urge to completely throw away the past ten days. I am grateful for L. and the serendipitous way in which she came into my life. If not for her, I would not have stayed sober today.

cute scottish boys with thick brogues

The Twilight Sad show tonight was yummy. I went with R. -- who, being relatively new to town, had never been to the Empty Bottle -- and drank Shirley Temples with Crayola-red grenadine and plump maraschino cherries. We stood next to the speakers, and the pulse of the vibrations reminded me that I'm alive despite myself. The show wasn't anything special or complicated or particularly ground-breaking, but for the first time in months I was able to just be. There was no risk of conflict or threat of disaster or walking on eggshells or fear of what might happen. There was no anxiety, no tension, no drama -- I was there for the music, for the companionship, for laughter, for conversation, for acceptance of the moment, for the feel of the bass pushing through the air and onto my arms... I was there for me.

This summer, I missed having a dark side in my life, thinking I needed it to feel loved and alive. But now that feels at least a million years ago; that sad despair has lost its tenuous hold on me, a grasp it only ever had because I was mistaken about its primacy. After I say prayers of gratitude tonight, I will fall asleep knowing that even though my life may never again be easy, it will also never again be filled with anger and contempt and loathing. Call it willingness, call it acceptance, call it surrender: I am looking inward, and I have made the choice to leave that behind. Tonight, perhaps for the first time ever, I know I'm going to be okay.

my life is a game of tetris

Here's what it's like for me to play Tetris: I'm thinking ahead, looking at that little screen that tells me what pieces are coming next, frantically working out in my head how I'm going to fit the next three or four pieces together so I can repeatedly earn back-to-back tetris points, inwardly swearing when I screw things up, always racing to get as many points as possible because I need to get on the high-scoring board this time, but I'm screwing things up so majorly that I am absolutely certain no matter how perfectly I play the game, I will never make my name on that high-scoring board, but then the game ends and, whaddya know?, there it is: I've made it. And every time my Palm asks me to put my name it for the high-scoring board, I'm shocked that I played well enough to get there.

(My name is A. & I'm a perfectionist with low self-esteem.)

Usually, I laugh about this Tetris thing. Occasionally, it occurs to me that "normal" people are able to play the game either not caring whether they make it to the high-scoring board or with a relative confidence that if they do well, they will therefore make it. In other words, they either let go or they realize that competence is rewarded, a fact that neither surprises nor startles them. But still, it's just a game, right? Uh, in my case, probably not.

Yesterday, two things brought this into focus. First, as I mentioned yesterday, I was asked to be on the Board of Directors for an up-and-coming parenting organization. As I researched more about this board, I realized it will also include vice-presidents of major toy companies, people who host children's television shows, relatively well-known children's entertainers, and other various high-level industry executives. And, of course, when I was asked, my first reaction was to wonder if they knew who I am; they couldn't possibly want me, could they? And I'm still shaky about that, even though I am the local editor for a national website that is owned by (one of) the biggest media conglomerates in the world -- uh, hello?, why wouldn't a Chicago-based parenting organization want me on board? It's not like we're in freakin' Omaha*.

And as I was still reeling from the being-invited, I finished up my newsletter and emailed it off to the Orlando editor, whose turn it was to edit my weekly stuff. The experience of writing the newsletter every week goes like this:

Monday:
Start working on newsletter, searching for all the things that might be included. Realize I've missed three-quarters** of what's going on in Chicagoland and need to spend the next 48 hours forgoing food and sleep to restore the site to perfection.

Tuesday:
Start to panic, certain that if I don't immediately add every parenting event and attraction within a 100-mile radius to the site, I will get a phone call from my editor saying I'm fired and they want to hire someone who is actually competent.

Wednesday:
Continue to panic, but then realize it's just a newsletter! Granted, it is sent out to more than 10,000 families, and my editor reads it meticulously, but it's just one week! There is always next week! And next week will be totally different than this week, right? And so I go about editing and putting everything in our style, thinking surely it's -- at best -- going to be a mediocre newsletter & when I get it back from the other editor, I'm going to have tons of corrections to make because this has to be the absolute worst newsletter ever written in the history of the website.

By the time I get the edits back from the other editor, I've usually resigned myself to this "fact" of a bad newsletter, and I've also convinced myself that when my managing editor sees how many edits were necessary, she's going to fire me. I spend Wednesday evening and Thursday morning in a perpetual state of certainty that Today Will be the Day I Get Fired for Incompetence. And this is the state of my mind when I opened the email from the Orlando editor about my newsletter, which read:

You are the goddess of newsletters. Not only is there nothing to correct, it is -- with absolute sincerity -- a work of art. (I think I'll save it for inspiration so I can re-read it on those days when things just aren't flowing...).

This is about the time, during the aftermath of the Tetris game, during which I stare at the screen and try to figure out why I was so certain I was "losing" in my quest. As I take on a new perspective of the world -- as I've been doing over the past week -- it feels good to put the pieces together in a way that forces me to come to realizations about myself and be honest about how my reality is, well, not real. I think I'm ready to learn to play Tetris without doubting myself so much; I think I'm ready for every day to be The Day I Do a Good Job Without Doubt. And now, enter much panic over the prospect of not panicking...

* not that I have anything against Omaha
** this is a slightly hyperbolic statement

news of the weird

A music-savvy former student of mine sent me an email swearing he saw me Sunday at the Boris show at the Empty Bottle. This wouldn't normally be worth mentioning, except I *did* have a ticket for that show and didn't go, since I was instead at the Green Mill for The "Goodbye Tony the Tumor" Reunion Tour 2007, which was totally worth losing $20 on my Boris ticket. I'm curious to know whether I have a Doppelgänger appearing at shows around town. Do you think she's available for Superdrag on the 13th? Maybe this is my chance to post something in the Missed Connections on Craigslist...

And in other news: I've been asked to be on the Board of Directors for an up-and-coming parenting organization in Chicago, which for now shall remain nameless. This is a fairly big deal, since there is some national exposure possible there. This is, of course, all part of my Machiavellian plan to become the premier children's media expert in the second city... bwahahahaha...

how to confuse your new therapist

1st Session
Come in saying you're there to learn, among other things, how to be strong enough to leave an abusive relationship. Leave with plans to work on self-esteem during the next session.

2nd Session
Come in announcing that you've broken up with your boyfriend. Say you're worried about going to your grandfather's funeral, since you've just learned he's on his deathbed. Leave with plans to work on "what to do at the funeral" at the next session.

3rd Session
Come in with news that the funeral was on Saturday. Say you think you're an alcoholic. Leave with all sorts of advice on what to avoid (bars, people drinking, the ex-boyfriend) during the next week and plans to work on "am I an alcoholic?" at the next session.

Voice Mail Left Between 3rd and Yet-to-Happen 4th Sessions
Hey, this is A., and I am freaking out. I feel like I'm having a heart attack. I am anxious and this feeling WILL NOT GO AWAY. Isn't there some sort of pill you can give me for this?

...and lead us not into temptation...

In a wood-paneled room, with a jazz piano soundtrack and the familiar smell of cigars amid a haze of cigarette smoke, with bottles of Stella in her line of sight, with a hum of a microphone, with maraschino cherries bobbing to the surface in a row of Shirley Temples, with an empty stage in front of her, the woman who isn't drinking knows that the man smoking a cigar and nursing whiskey at the bar is the one she'd most definitely go after if she were.

I'd go home with that guy if I were drinking, she tells her friends.

Yeah, I thought that when I saw him, says the pregnant one.

Really? says the happily-married one. He screams 'asshole' to me.

That's exactly why I'm not drinking, says the woman, and the three friends laugh, all for different reasons.

The pregnant one laughs because she sure can call 'em. The happily-married one laughs because, well, it's funny. The woman laughs because it takes her mind off of drinking.

All night, a tension: the woman thinking, thinking about drinking, thinking how drinking would mean that guy, thinking how that guy would feel good. Thinking that guy and drinking would feel even better, because that would mean that the feeling of ants under her skin marching out a pattern of anxiety would go away for a while. But I'm hear to listen to poetry and celebrate being alive! she thinks. Everyone else is listening to poetry. Everyone else knows when to laugh and when to groan and when to tune out idiots. Everyone else can tell you that the drunk woman in a Ramones t-shirt said something about her nipples getting hard when hearing the Home Depot song and the tall lawyer kept reading uneven poetry and the whiskey-drinking cigar-smoking guy's poem ended with something about a blow job.

The woman has vague recollections of all these things -- and other poems, including a disturbing one about children and S&M -- at the end of the evening, and if someone put a gun to her head, she'd be able to produce answers about who said what to whom and when, but all night it's the same thing: looking at the bottles of Stella, and back at the blow-job man, and back at the bottles, and the man, back and forth, simultaneously wanting both but definitely neither but definitely both. Yes and no mingle with right and wrong and simultaneously it is nothing and everything that make sense, and she both knows and doesn't know that the answer is in the bottles of Stella and the man who would taste devilishly dangerous if she were to kiss him.

When she exits the wood-paneled room into the fresh air, she leaves knowing that she's walking away -- yes, her feet are moving; yes, she is getting into her car; yes, she is going home instead of turning around and going back to that bar -- but what remains is still the pull, the attraction, the memory of what it feels like to kiss someone who tastes like bourbon and cigars. She's angry and anxious and sad -- not to mention generally crestfallen and heartbroken and wistful -- that things can't go as they've always gone, and she wants to scream over wanting things with such desperation that she knows she can't have because she knows they are bad, bad, bad. And then there's the uncomfortable knowledge that there is something disturbing in wanting the mingling of tobacco and whiskey in her mouth more than not wanting them.

What she'll remember, later, when she goes home, alone, to write about this: she and her friends laughed for different reasons.