Week of Poems: Day Six

Ignore the fuzziness & the mess on the kitchen table...

Dinner with TPVG went swell. I'll be up most of the night grading papers, but that's OK. Last weekend, I hung pink holiday lights on the doorway from my living room to my kitchen, and tonight I bought a mistletoe ball to hang in the middle. It looks delightful (see out-of-focus photo, above). I also bought lights for my windows, and I'll be putting them up tomorrow -- I figured hammering at 1am would violate the spirit of the holidays. I've got scented candles lit and music playing and it's toasty warm inside and in a couple of weeks a bunch of ladies are coming over for a cookie exchange and Sunday I'm going with A. & J. to a sober holiday party... and well, I just am super (and genuinely) happy and immensely grateful. And for today's poem... a little something from Jimmy Santiago Baca. Namaste.

It would be neat if with the New Year

for Miguel

It would be neat if with the New Year
I could leave my loneliness behind with the old year.
My leathery loneliness an old pair of work boots
my dog vigorously head-shakes back and forth in its jaws,
chews on for hours every day in my front yard—
rain, sun, snow, or wind
in bare feet, pondering my poem,
I’d look out my window and see that dirty pair of boots in the yard.

But my happiness depends so much on wearing those boots.

At the end of my day
while I’m in a chair listening to a Mexican corrido
I stare at my boots appreciating:
all the wrong roads we’ve taken, all the drug and whiskey houses
we’ve visited, and as the Mexican singer wails his pain,
I smile at my boots, understanding every note in his voice,
and strangers, when they see my boots rocking back and forth on my feet

keeping beat to the song, see how
my boots are scuffed, tooth-marked, worn-soled.

I keep wearing them because they fit so good
and I need them, especially when I love so hard,
where I go up those boulder strewn trails,
where flowers crack rocks in their defiant love for the light.

Week of Poems: Day Five

Sullivan's Island, South Carolina

I first heard of Richard Brautigan from N. when I visited him in South Carolina. We drove down to Charleston to walk along the beach on Sullivan's Island and watch the sun set -- a beautiful evening -- and he took me on a tour of the Battery and the graveyards and all the other little historical places that give most of the south its character and heart. We watched the sweetgrass basket weavers ply their crafts on the sidewalks while sitting cross-legged in long dresses on handmade quilts, and perused art galleries, and spent a good deal of time simply inhaling the sweet air that I haven't since found anywhere else. It was the first time I was in Charleston, and during those days I sowed the seeds for my subsequent summer-long stay south of Broad. It was, I believe, the first time I fell in love with a place. And since then N. and I have fallen out of favor with each other, but I will always remember those days and that he introduced me to Brautigan.

Your Catfish Friend
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

Week of Poems: Day Four

My Tattoo No. 5 is a sun motif with the words "eat rice have faith in women" surrounding it. Lots of people ask what that means. Short version -- it's a radical ecofeminist creed of sorts: there's this idea that we kill and eat animals because of our society's masculine desire to conquer nature, and when we reject that (by "eating rice") we place our faith in the feminine aspects of the world. [This is where the title for my blog comes from, btw.] And this was all articulated first by Fran Winant, a lesbian ecofeminist poet who published "Eat Rice Have Faith in Women" in 1980. What follows is actually an excerpt -- the part I like the best, as it describes so perfectly how I've seen the world for some time now. Namaste.

Eat Rice Have Faith in Women
eat rice have faith in women
what I don't know now
I can still learn
if I am alone now
I can become strong
slowly, slowly
if I can teach others
if others learn first
I must believe
they will come back and teach me
eat rice have faith in women
what I don't know now
I can still learn

Week of Poems: Day Three

I'm surrounded by sickness -- both mental and physical -- and it gets overwhelming sometimes. I'm in shock over something that happened yesterday that's so dysfunctional I can't even talk about it coherently... but it helps to realize that the person involved is very, very ill and probably couldn't help himself if he tried. Meanwhile, I'm sleeping way too much and my back is out (again). Anyhow... here are several (shorter) poems (they are all actually quatrains) for Day Three (all by Rumi, again). Namaste.

I'll go a hundred steps beyond reason,
Free from the existence of good and evil.
You are so good that I'm beyond the veil.
Let the clueless know: I will love myself.

***

I would shake the dust from my coat, and rise
If I realized my own perfection.
I would rush to the sky, empty and light;
My head would be high as the ninth heaven.

***

No punishment, no threat,
Could make me tell this secret.
Something carries joy inside me
But I can't quite point to it.

***

Seek the science that unties for you this knot.
Seek it as long as there's life in you still to be sought.
Leave that nothing that looks like it's something;
Seek that something that looks like it's nothing; it's not.

***

Don't call the wise lover insane, or say
The soul who shares your garden's a stranger.
Don't confine the encircling sea to a cup.
She knows her name, so don't make stories up.

***

You're sitting beside the road that you seek.
Blinded by moonlight, you search for the moon.
Why seek Joseph's beauty, that dimpled chin?
You yourself are love; Joseph, you are him.

Week of Poems: Day Two

It's been a perfectly wonderful day -- waking up to nice emails and connecting with people and realizing how much I'm growing as a person (and a friend) during therapy today and counting my blessings (which are many). It's my 60-day anniversary, and A. & the people from what's become my home group & I are going out to eat at Hamburger Mary's after the meeting and it should be a spectacular time. Here's another poem from Rumi.

I Saw Goodness Getting Drunk
I am gone,
lost any sense of wanting the wine
of the nowhereness ask me,
I don't know where I am.
At times I plunge
to the bottom of the sea,
at times, rise up
like the Sun.

At times, the universe is pregnant by me,
at times I give birth to it.
The milestone in my life
is the nowhereness,
I don't fit anywhere else.
This is me:
a rogue and a drunkard,
easy to spot
in the tavern of Lovers.
I am the one shouting hey ha.

They ask me why I don't
behave myself.
I say, when you
reveal your true nature,
then I will act my age.

Last night, I saw Goodness getting drunk.
He growled and said,
I am a nuisance, a nuisance.
A hundred souls cried out, but
we are yours, we are yours, we are yours.
You are the light
that spoke to Moses and said
I am God, I am God, I am God.
I said Shams-e Tabrizi, who are you?
He said, I am you, I am you, I am you.

Week of Poems: Day One

I've been reading a lot of poems by Rumi, a 13th-Century Persian poet whose full name was Mawlānā Jalāl-ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī. I've fallen in love with his verse, and I've started reading The Masanavi of Rumi as a means of continuing that linguistic love affair. Since I enjoy sharing with my friends, I'm declaring this the Week of Poems... and here's Day One. Namaste.

My heart, sit only with those
who know and understand you.
Sit only under a tree
that is full of blossoms.
In the bazaar of herbs and potions
don't wander aimlessly
find the shop with a potion that is sweet.
If you don't have a measure
people will rob you in no time.
You will take counterfeit coins
thinking they are real.
Don't fill your bowl with food from
every boiling pot you see.
Not every joke is humorous, so don't search
for meaning where there isn't one.
Not every eye can see,
not every sea is full of pearls.
My heart, sing the song of longing
like nightingale.
The sound of your voice casts a spell
on every stone, on every thorn.
First, lay down your head
then one by one
let go of all distractions.
Embrace the light and let it guide you
beyond the winds of desire.
There you will find a spring and nourished by its sea waters
like a tree you will bear fruit forever.

saturday storytelling

Here is a story B. told me, called "The Old Lady." I think he sees the future of the hip mamas without me even knowing it. It's dedicated to all those ladies who are my family. Namaste.

as it turns out

There was nothing to worry about. It all went smashingly well. I suppose I fret about things going wrong before they've even begun to go right. Who would've thunk?

PS - Thanksgiving dinner was awesome, despite burning my hand and dropping the apple blossoms on the floor (two guesses as to whether we ate them anyhow; I knew there was a reason I cleaned the kitchen floor last night...). And it was fun for us all to take naps afterward while the kiddos played & watched television (and, uh, surreptitiously ate four pieces of pumpkin bread). Yay for Mr. (and Mrs.) Potatohead and Matchbox cars and puzzles and On Demand and -- especially -- for close friends.

giving thanks...

Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.

-- Cicero

Last night was spent cleaning house, and even though I'm absolutely certain that my neat-freak friends (yes, I mean you, Anima Sola...) would have stayed up into the wee hours making sure everything was perfect, I've come to realize that I don't really care if my baseboards are clean. It was enough that I tackled the dust bunnies and cat hair... and now I've got scented candles lit and the smell of cooking pumpkin bread fills my tiny apartment and I'm just so darn excited about M. and her family coming over in a few hours that I feel like a teen-ager before her first date.

Around Thanksgiving, a lot of people talk about being thankful when what they really mean is they are happy that... things like, I'm thankful for having the day off of work or I'm thankful for the shopping sales or I'm thankful that my mother lives 1,500 miles away and I don't have the money for a plane ticket. The holiday's presumed (and incorrectly invoked) basis becomes a cover for laziness, greed, family dysfunction, and a whole host of other negative desires and emotions. This is, I believe, extremely distasteful and a perversion of the whole point of the holiday... but I've also learned to let this go and focus on, well, me.

On Tuesday, my aunt called and invited me to Thanksgiving dinner at my grandmother's house. She apologized for the late notice and offered to figure out some way to accommodate our dietary concerns. Of course, I already had plans that I wasn't about to cancel, so I called back yesterday to decline (and arrange to be part of the family's Christmas festivities, which will be odd, but I digress...). I sent M. a joking text message saying I was grateful that she was coming over so that I had an excuse without having to lie, but since then I've been reconceptualizing that situation... it isn't that I'm thankful to have an alibi (of sorts) but, rather, I'm grateful for a whole host of other things.

I'm grateful I am learning to take care of myself, part of which was setting up my own holiday plans rather than sitting around waiting for someone else to ask me along. (To be fair, several sober people DID extend invitations, all of which I declined.) If I hadn't taken charge of that, I would have been left on Tuesday wanting to be part of something but not really wanting to be part of THAT something, and I would have been consumed with guilt and resentment and anger, and I would have felt compelled to say yes and "be the better person" and "suck it up" and just go. (Which is all in my head anyhow, since my dad's family isn't really mean to me -- they just remain unaware and ignorant of all the things we had to suffer through growing up and still think of my father as a good dad....) But anyhow... (you had to know this was coming...)

I am grateful for/that...
the ability to grow and heal; the program and all the people brought into my life through its rooms; my children, who continue to teach me humility and patience; the mamas, who have given me friendships with women that I never thought possible; the grace which continues to bless me every day; my health (especially being tumor-free); my sobriety (both physical and emotional); finally having health, vision, and dental insurance; my job, which allows me to work on my own time and make sure I'm taking care of myself first; and all the people who have hurt me, since through forgiving them, I can allow myself to be forgiven.

And I mean this from the bottom of my heart: Namaste.

odd memories

I just remembered something about being in the hospital right after brain surgery, and I don't quite know why it's NOW that it popped into my head, but... the whole time I was in the NICU, I had to get these horrible heparin shots in my belly several times a day. They left bruises on my stomach for weeks afterward. It was the absolute worst thing about the days after surgery, which is saying a lot. It reminds me of a woman in the meeting today who said that you remember things when you're ready for them to weasel into your brain, sometimes fully welcome and other times causing quite a bit of strain. I wonder why it's today that I remembered about the needles and the bruises and that pain.

rolling along...

It's been 55 days today & I've been having those feelings I've had periodically... the ones where I think, Well, things are going pretty well, so maybe this means I'm not really an alcoholic and I can stop going to meetings. But because I am at least sane enough to not listen to myself (most of the time) I've been forcing myself to keep going to meetings -- even though it's probably the last thing in the world I really want to be doing.

I went to two meetings today, and at both of them I was pleasantly surprised. In the first one, I heard the rather inspiring story of a 71-year-old man who's struggled with relapsing again and again over the past 20 years and whose latest sobriety date is only five days before my own. At the second meeting -- one I've been to before, but don't usually attend, since A. teaches on Wed nights -- I walked in to see the room filled with people I know, including C. and J. (who are perpetually helpful sober role models).

There isn't any reason to quit now, other than that I want to... and that's part of my overall problem, this abandoning things because they get boring or I get impatient or I just don't want to commit to much of anything. So I'm not going to stop... I'll be at a meeting in the morning, and at my usual one on Friday, and then more over the weekend... and on Monday I'll celebrate 60 days. The days, they just keep on rolling... and I need to remember to stay vigilant and keep on top of things, even if I don't feel like it.

born-again

I am going away with him to an unknown country where I shall have no past and no name, and where I shall be born again with a new face and an untried heart.

-- Sidonie Gabrielle

Yesterday, I was malingering about all the confusion swirling in the pit of my soul and my suspicion that I must be brain-damaged because I can't remember how to interact with men. Hearing this, my therapist laughed and then said, Maybe this means you'll be able to recognize a healthy situation when it comes your way. And I realized I really, really hate it when she's right. I'm going to think about this Thursday, when I will be alone with a man (at a movie, but still...) for the first time in two months...

this is supposed to feel better

After complaining to my therapist for half an hour about being set adrift in a no (wo)man's land between Things I Know Are Really, Really Bad For Me and Completely Inconceivable Yet Presumably Good Things On the Horizon, she said something I really didn't care to hear: You've made more progress in two months than some people make in two years. This is absolutely where you need to be, and it's 100% healthy and productive. Keep doing what you've been doing. I'm so excited for you!

Uh, yeah. Whatever. Woo fuckin' hoo.

identity crisis

How do you take away from a man his madness without also taking away his identity?

-- William Saroyan

I keep thinking about a movie I saw a couple of years ago -- Unknown White Male -- on the same night that I got drunk and almost broke my wrist at the Holiday Club (though I didn't realize this until around 5am, when the alcohol started wearing off and the intense pain began). Everything seems so confusing lately -- I am alive, and I am sober, and I am able to go out of my home, and I quite frequently interact with people in this conceptual place called "the world" but it is all very foreign to me. How is it possible that I can recognize so many things without remembering them? This strikes me most often when I'm on my way home from meetings -- when I drive past Delilah's or the Hopleaf or The Spot -- and I have a vague recollection of at some point being a woman who not only felt comfortable in those bars but knew what to do. I look back at the past few months, and I contemplate the decisions I've made, and I do not understand how they made sense. I can no longer fathom how I could have been the person who so frequently made such obviously bad choices, which I suppose means I've finally deemed myself insane.

But a not-insignificant part of me wants to be insane again, because at least I had a history filled with things that didn't work. My failure was predictable and comfortable, and pain was simply the price I paid for a certain sense of regularity. Every decision I make now, every action I take (or fail to take) is made or done for the very first time, and they are all performed so unnaturally that it's nearly impossible to know what's right (or wrong).

I don't really want to go back to where I was, but sometimes it sure seems as though it would feel pretty damn nice.

nothing I have to do today

Think of how liberating it feels to wake up on a day off with the realization "there's nothing I have to do today." This is not an experience we should reserve for Saturday mornings, or the first day of vacation. It's true every day of our lives.

-- David Kelley

Way back in 1996, I read an article by David Kelley entitled "I Don't Have To," but it's only been, oh, the past week or so that I've really internalized his message (yes, I'm slow to catch on sometimes...). Kelley's main point is that by conceptualizing tasks as things we "have to do" rather than as things we want to do (because they align with our values and long-term goals), we become overwhelmed by a long list of "things to do" that are divorced from our reasons for doing them. And I've been thinking about this a lot lately -- but more from the perspective, I guess, of all the things I don't have to do. It wasn't until re-reading Kelley's article this evening that I was able to see WHY I don't have to do them: they don't fulfill any higher purpose or align in any way with the values I hold.

Last week, my sponsor told me I have three priorities:

1. Staying sober.
2. Making sure my kids are OK.
3. Keeping my job.

Over the past week, I've been taking these rather seriously. There are dozens of emails and phone calls that remain unanswered tonight -- and they will remain unanswered, as the people who wrote or called have no interest in my well-being or my sobriety. There are concerts to which I've bought tickets -- spending a considerable amount of money -- that I won't attend, since there's no real reason to do so, other than I'm "supposed to" be there. I have no obligation to anyone other than myself and my children, and I'm going to keep it that way for some time. And so I'm sure it may sound harsh, but not really; the people who are adding to my life and supporting my priorities are pretty much the only ones who have stuck through this with me this far already. Everyone else comes and goes, emails and calls, pops up and disappears, according to their own whims, needs, and desires. And you know what? There's no day like today to come out and say, I don't have to answer to them.

touching the void

Back to being nine -- or eleven, or thirteen... any time between the point when sex was something mysterious and magical, something older girls talked about with a mixture of pride and fear, something you wondered about a heck of a lot but never really could understand and the first time you actually saw a boy (or man) naked and thought to yourself, Uh, yeah. So THIS is what all the fuss was about... But before you figured it all out (or started to, anyhow, since none of us ever really figure it out entirely) it was confusing... there were all these feelings and urges that you didn't quite know how to sate because you didn't quite, yet, realize how angst and sexual longing feel almost exactly the same.

I suppose it's not entirely unexpected, but I've been getting a fair amount of attention lately. And it's not that I'm not flattered or ungrateful or even offended... but it's more like I don't quite know what to do with it. Walking home from the bus tonight after the meeting & the dinner, I started to have that wanting-something feeling for the first time in weeks, but I don't entirely know what it is I want. There was a guy tonight at the meeting who was flirting and at first I -- automatically, without even thinking -- played along. It was like a reflex, something I did before I could even stop myself. And even after I did stop myself... well, it was as though a switch were turned on and now I'm left with a certain emptiness I don't recall having before.

On top of this, I think I saw a ghost this afternoon. It was the strangest thing. I opened my front door and saw (who I thought was) my cat run out at my feet and into the stairwell. And then when I put my bags down to look for her, she was asleep on my couch, startled by my coming in. I spent ten minutes looking for a cat in the stairwell before I figured it was just my imagination. But since then -- and since everything tonight -- I just feel all different, as though something dark has left me and something confusing and chaotic and rainbow-colored has taken its place.

While I imagine this means I'm due for a spiritual growth spurt, I don't like it one bit. I want things to be like they were before: when I knew what to do and when, how to respond to people, how to interact with men, how to be fun, how to be ME. And that's really the thing: I don't even know who I am anymore.

it's hot in the poor places tonight

Lots of bad news is circulating in my world today: my boss' boss' baby died (after surgery, after being born two-months premature in August) & a close friend lost her job (as of Jan 1) & a former student of mine dropped out of school after her alcoholic ex-boyfriend beat her so badly both of her arms were broken. Meanwhile, except for going out to teach, I've been huddled up in my apartment for two days, mostly lying on the couch and watching (arguably) bad television and listening to iTunes. I don't know if I'm hibernating or renewing my reserves or avoiding reality or protecting myself from the bad things that lurk outside my door, but I feel guilty being so safe and warm inside when so many other people are hurting out there. I think it's maybe time to wake up and venture outside.

blech

I think I'm coming down with something. There seems to be no other explanation for my crawling into bed when I got home from teaching at 2pm and sleeping until about 20 minutes ago. Both my body and my head ache, and I don't feel much like eating. My plan for the evening: make dinner, curl up on the couch, watch TV, fall asleep early. I can't remember the last time I did that, which seems to be a sign that it's the perfect thing tonight. Before that, though, I'm going to indulge myself in a survey I found while surfing the blogosphere this evening...

1. What is your occupation? I work as a website editor & teach English composition to impressionable college students...

2. What color are your socks right now? I'm not wearing socks, which is notable. But that's only because I woke up a little while ago & threw on my robe and haven't put socks on yet. When I do, though, they will be low-cut and white. I have a zillion pairs of them since I love them so much.

3. What are you listening to right now? I'm listening to the Party Shuffle on iTunes, which means "Stay" from Small Sins just ended and "Easier" from Grizzly Bear just began. "Land of a Thousand Words" from Scissor Sisters is next.

4. What was the last thing that you ate? I haven't eaten all day, but I'm staring at a half-eaten bag of cookies & have high hopes for making vegan "chicken" alfredo when I finish this survey.

5. Can you drive a stick shift? Yes, indeed. I learned how to drive on a stick and I don't think I'll ever buy a car that's NOT manual transmission unless they stop making them entirely, and even then I'd seek out some bad-ass muscle car, which is what I plan on doing anyhow after I pay off my credit card bills and buy a condo, which looks like it will be happening within the next 18 months, so woo hoo!

6. Last person you spoke to on the phone? I'm pretty sure it was A., last night -- oh, wait, no! It was K...

7. Do you like the person who sent this meme to you? Well, I stole this from a blog I was visiting, but, yeah, I really like her style!

8. How old are you today? I am happily thirty-four, since this means I survived thirty-three, which even Jesus couldn't do.

9. Favorite drink? S. Pellegrino with lime. Yummy. Yesterday, W. said, "Are you sure it doesn't have alcohol? You drink an awful lot of it, and I'm starting to question what's in it..."

10. What is your favorite sport to watch? I don't do "sports."

11. Have you ever dyed your hair? Last time I checked "blue" isn't in the natural color spectrum.

12. Pets? One pain-in-the-ass cat & three more living with A.

13. Favorite food? Anything served by Karyn's Cooked.

14. What was the last movie you watched? The Bee Movie.

15. What’s your favorite day of the week? Thursday. It means the rushed part of my week is over.

16. How do you vent anger? I take a long hot bath or go to the spa. Or sometimes I yell at people, though that's less frequent.

17. What was your favorite toy as a child? Probably Light Brite, though my brother and sister used to tear up the patterns all the time and my mom refused to buy new ones, insisting that I use my own creativity to make boats and spaceships and flowers and shit. Like, uh, why would you want to do that when SOMEONE ELSE has already figured it out for you?

18. What is your favorite season? In Chicago, it's spring. In Texas, it's definitely winter.

19. Hugs or kisses? Right now, I'll take neither. Though hugs from B. and W. are definitely nice.

20. Cherries or Blueberries? I LOVE fresh blueberries, especially in muffins or waffles. Yum. With cherries, you've got to deal with all those pits and such. Not fun.

21. Do you want your friends to try this meme? I'd love to see them do so... maybe V., since she's also doing NaBloPoMo?

22. Who is most likely to respond? Oh, who really cares? We all know this is just me wanting to spend more time on the computer because even though I SAY I am going to go to bed early and veg tonight, isn't that a little bit of wishful thinking?

23. Who is least likely to respond? Please see number 22.

24. Living arrangements? I live in a studio apartment with the aforementioned pain-in-the-ass cat.

25. When was the last time you cried? Wednesday, November 7.

26. What is on the floor of your closet? Shoes.

27. Who is the friend you have known the longest that you are sending this to? I'm not "sending" this to anyone, but there are people who read this whom I've known for 8-10 years...

28. What did you do last night? Went to M.'s for dinner with the boys, then to the house to watch America's Next Top Model & Criminal Minds while doing laundry & playing Tetris on my phone. Came back here after A. got home & edited my newsletter, then went to bed after watching Everybody Loves Raymond.

29. Favorite smell? Cinnamon or possibly pumpkin pie -- all those "fall" smells.

30. What inspires you? Humanity. It also depresses and angers me, but I'm aiming to focus on the positive right now...

31. What are you afraid of? Spiders. Mean people. Men who yell at me. Dying painfully. My kids dying before I do.

32. Plain, cheese or spicy burgers? Rice cheese veggie burgers!

33. Favorite dog breed? I love teacup poodles, but anything small, white, and fluffy is perfect. One day, when I am braver than I am now, I will get a dog.

34. How many states have you lived in? Four, if you count living in South Carolina for the summer...otherwise, obviously, three.

35. Favorite holiday? Winter Solstice.

things are looking down

I don't know if it's the continued medication side effects or the changing weather or my massive work overload or not getting to a meeting today or having to wear my contacts since Sunday (when B. bent my glasses out of shape) or the fact that W. is seriously making me reconsider my position against capital punishment for ten-year-olds, but I have been in a foul, foul mood all day. If I were a serial killer in the making, this is the day I'd be out torturing squirrels, and if I were any less sober, I'd be at the Hopleaf right now drinking at least my sixth Jever of the evening.

The only thing that kept me away from that barstool tonight was the chance to sit at M.'s house and vent and vent and vent to her about every single thing that has irritated or frustrated me over the past 48 hours -- which, it goes without saying, is a heck of a lot. That woman either has the patience of a saint or now realizes I'm a lot more fucked up than she previously thought. Sigh.

puckety puckety puck

Due to new medication, I feel as though I'm pregnant & coming off of a two-day-long acid trip. For those who have neither been pregnant nor dropped acid, suffice it to say that this is, uh, unpleasant. V. calls this feeling "puck" -- and boy do I feel pucky. I didn't like the meeting I went to tonight, I don't want to be productive, I brashly applied for an awesome job* I'll probably be offered and don't really want, B. is sick and will probably have to stay home tomorrow, I don't feel like cooking dinner (but also can't bring myself to waste money on take-out), I've eaten half a bag of cookies in less than 24 hours, and I'm out of bubble bath.

On the plus side, M.'s having us over for dinner tomorrow, and we have tentative plans to spend Thanksgiving dinner together at my place. I'm looking forward to the prospect of cooking a vegan feast for friends... it's been so long since I've had a chance to spend a holiday with anyone who really cared about it (A. never quite did), and since I'm really beginning to love the space in which I live, I can't wait to open it up to my best friend and her family.

*working 3/4 time in Chicago and 1/4 time in NYC

snarky & smarmy

Thanks to Anima Sola, I learned about this study, the findings of which assert that the bigger the difference between a woman's hips and waist, the smarter she is (and the smarter her children are). Therefore, I must have two shockingly and frighteningly genius children because my ass is so disproportionately large...

coming of age

This is the most ridiculous thing, but I feel grown-up today. I have health, dental, and vision insurance that isn't going to go away when the semester ends. I checked my 401(k) profit sharing balance the first time since I qualified (Oct. 1) and already have almost $1,000 there (yay, huge multinational corporation for which I work!). I received my first student loan payment bill in the mail. I bought real flatware and glasses over the weekend, along with a fancy can opener and a pizza cutter. I've been consistently and pre-emptively going grocery shopping, finally realizing the true advantages of buying food before I run out. I'm almost done with two essays I've been working on -- just in time to submit them for the fall reading season & writing contests. I'm taking charge of my health. I stood up to A. in an argument last night. I've finished writing my conference proposal for February. I'm planning all these trips I've postponed for so long -- Indy & Milwaukee for work; Texas to see my brother; New York City to, well, just because; Albuquerque for the annual conference where I see all my Deadhead friends; Europe with W. for spring break; Italy for a month next summer -- and overall it's amazing the ways in which the puzzle pieces of my life keep falling into place if I try to stop stressing so much over how they'll ever fit together.

In celebration of my adulthood, I'm adopting three plants this evening, and I have high hopes that I will not kill them.

yesterday, driving with b.

This is my life.

B: Is that Abraham Lincoln? (pointing to the statue in Lincoln Square, at Western and Lawrence)

Me: Yes, it is.

B: Ooh, maybe he lives in our neighborhood.

Me: No, sweetie. He's dead.

B: (Immediately bursting into tears) But I wanted to talk to him about how he freed the slaves!

Me: Uh, maybe we can get a book from the library?

drunk people look stupid

Tonight marked the first time I've danced sober, uh, ever. M.B. showed up a bit before the Polkaholics went on, and we talked a bit about The Dancing (we have a semi-long history involving drinking and dancing, most notably at the U-Melt show at the Kinetic Playground, where K. got a massive nosebleed and I convinced some guy to give me money and I ended up making semi-silly choices regarding one certain drummer...). I assured her that there would be no dancing, since I was, uh, not drinking. She pointed out -- quite fabulously, I might add -- that no one else had to know I wasn't drinking, so why not dance as though I were?

And so we did the Chicken Dance -- and I admonished both W. and J. for not putting aside their We Are Real Men stance and just clucking and flapping and wiggling, since if you can't do the Chicken Dance then what good are you to the world, really? And then M.B. and I danced for probably 45 minutes longer -- I even flashed her my stripper face for old time's sake -- until we both started looking at all the really tall drunk people who seemed to be oblivious to us short and sober people and we decided it was best to stay in one place and play defense for a while. It was during this time that we realized drunk people look really stupid when you're sober. And the best was the obviously intoxicated woman who mouthed to us, I am soooo drunk and of course M.B. and J. and W. and I all looked at each other and said/thought, Gee, we never would have been able to tell otherwise...

The only down side is that I knocked my back out of whack again (and being sober, I am feeling it now rather than at 2pm tomorrow when I'd wake up with a hangover), and I absolutely refuse to believe it has anything to do with wearing stilettos. I will give up alcohol. I will give up controlled substances. I will give up Listerine and real vanilla and NyQuil and even tiramisu -- but I will not give up my stilettos. You might as well just shoot me.

friday afternoon thoughts

Never let the future disturb you. You will meet it, if you have to, with the same weapons of reason which today arm you against the present.

-- Marcus Aurelius Antoninus

It's funny how platitudes and bromides are the sorts of things I hear when I'm at the end of my rope and my response is all, Yeah, well, fuck you and your 'this too shall pass' and your 'it all works out in the end' and your 'everything happens for a reason' because I am IN PAIN RIGHT NOW and I don't want to hear about how in a day or two or four it's all going to work out. But then I woke up and even though I'd only had a few hours of sleep because I (once again) stayed up watching HBO 'til 3am, I remembered what M.M. said about finding the sunny places in the world and I made it a point to walk on the sunny side of the street and sit in a sunny seat on the bus and take just a minute to focus on actually feeling the sun before I walked into work and then the good things started to flow:

• Retroactively since Nov 1, I've got insurance through work.
• A student who's been vocal about her struggles with alcoholism asked for my advice and support today, and I was able to give it to her.
• For unknown reasons my teaching paycheck was $43 larger than usual. It's not a lot, but it was a nice surprise. I think I'll treat A. to dessert tonight.
• The student-teacher conference with W.'s teacher went well; once I explained his educational history, we made plans to accelerate him even more quickly and it looks like he'll be able to get through 6th and 7th grade this year.
• There's this guy I met over the summer who I kinda ended up blowing off in August & I'd sent him an email apologizing for being an ass and he responded with such a sweet message that when I mentioned it to A., she swooned (well, as much as you can swoon in Gmail chat...) and, well... coffee never hurt anyone, right?
  
• B. and I are having a sleepover with M., W., and D. tomorrow night. This is the first sober sleepover I've been to since, oh, middle school. And it is going to involve board games and pizza and video games and quite possibly a pillow fight or two. The thought makes me oddly giddy.
  

But then, also, things were, uh, tempered when I ran into the assistant head of the department after my class & asked her how her husband is doing. Her husband, see, is the head of my graduate program, and he was diagnosed with prostrate cancer a little over a year ago, and the last time I'd heard anything he had just started a third round of chemo and he looked not-so-good (so not-so-good, actually, that N. seriously fell off the wagon because he was so upset). And the minute I asked her how E. was doing, her face fell and she looked serious and very sad when she told me he was in the hospital and they hoped he'd be out and back to teaching by early next week but that they didn't really know.

And all of a sudden none of it mattered -- the good news, the insurance, the reassurance, the resolutions, the giddiness, the plans -- and all I could think about was how, six years ago, I'd sat in E.'s office talking to him about how to get into grad school and whether the program I thought I wanted was the one I needed and what I had to do to make sure I got in and whom I needed to talk to so I could make the right decisions. I'd brought W. with me at the time -- he was four years old and antsy and this was before I found out I was pregnant with B. and it was right after 9/11 and the whole world was collapsing and confusing and I was 100% certain my couldn't-sit-still four-year-old son was going to fuck up my chances of impressing this rather impressive man and I would never, ever be able to get into graduate school... and what E. did was take out a stack of paper and a package of markers and he sat W. down and asked him to draw a picture, and when I went to his office a few years later, that drawing was still taped up on his wall.

early-morning friday thoughts

Every night at 11pm, I watch Sex and the City on WGN -- it's smack dab within my "working hours" and it affords me the delusion that my life isn't completely absorbed by my work (even though it is). And WGN is now up to Season Six -- the last one, the one in which Miranda and Steve get married and Charlotte has a miscarriage and Samantha finds out she has breast cancer and Carrie moves to France (where Aleksandr smacks her around)... but at every turn (crises and high points alike) the characters are all fundamentally present in each other's lives.

There were hints of this sort of relationship between the women in earlier seasons -- most notably in Season Four, when Miranda's mother dies and they all traipse to Philadelphia to offer support -- but Season Six is where the previous years all come together and you realize quite powerfully that while it's easy to dismiss the show as just another silly sitcom about how snotty and bitchy women can be, what it really comes down to is that women have an uncanny ability to really just be there in each other's lives. Every time I watch Season Six in its entirety, I can barely get through the later episodes without crying.

Beyond getting/staying sober, the biggest and most meaningful gift I have in my life right now remains the relationships I have with other women. For most of my life, the majority of the friendships I've had have been with men. Women scared me, and I didn't quite know how to connect with them. But at some point I realized I had to get over that -- and, with the help of the hip mamas, I think I've come an awfully long way. I remember being 14 and seeing my mother and her friends together and wondering whether I'd ever get what she had: support, love, companionship, and just plain happy good will between friends. And, wow! Wouldn't you know that I've got it? Every single day I am eternally grateful for the women I have in my life. It's not at all a sexual thing, but I think I could live forever with nary a man in sight knowing my friends would always be there.

***

For years, I've been known to ask, First instinct: The Who or Led Zeppelin? I actually do think you can learn a lot about people based on their response, including (but certainly not limited to) what sort of a lover they'll make. I've been going around for years laughing about this, but walking home from tonight's meeting, I thought, Fuck Led Zeppelin! and started pondering a new dichotomy, this one relating to kindness rather than 1970s music: First instinct: Someone's in pain -- whaddya do? There seems to be a percentage of people in the world whose response is "kick 'em while they're down," and that puzzles me -- almost as much as people who pick "The Who," though at least I have a unique theory about what that means in terms of, uh, bedroom performance. And as for the latter question, I'm done trying to find out why some people lean to narcissism and sadism where others tend toward compassion and kindness -- I'm just making it a point to avoid people who fall into the former category.

***

Things are still tremendously difficult and while the reprieves are more frequent and offering more clarity and serenity, life and my experience of living pretty much still sucks. What helps quite a bit is talking with others who can relate their own early-sobriety experiences -- and tomorrow I'm going to see A. get her two-year coin & then we're going out to dinner at Karyn's & then we're going to see a (sober) friend's band play and maybe for a little while I can get a taste of the life I had before, a life that seems so distant yet so familiar that it's hard to not still think of it as "normal" these days. Maybe what I'm really wanting is the assurance that I can take the shiny fragments of my former life and mold them into something recognizable and comfortable and manageable. The only thing is that I'm pretty sure that's impossible and all I'm doing at this point is fooling myself.

first comes love...

Remember when you were, like, nine years old -- before all the hormones kicked in and you thought boys (or girls) had cooties and you made fun of them and wondered what the hell older kids were getting themselves worked up into a frenzy over and the closest thing you got to true male-female intimacy was singing silly songs about people K-I-S-S-I-N-G in trees? Well, apparently that's also how a 34-year-old woman can feel when she's about 43 days sober and basically forbidden to mingle with the so-called opposite sex.

This doesn't mean I'm not (briefly) entertaining fanciful (read: stupid & taboo) notions of running off into the sunset with one of the cute boys I see at meetings but, rather, that those daydreams are very much like the ones I had when I was nine: I think, Wow, wouldn't it be nice to be with That Guy, but then I can't really see beyond that point.

It's weird, the not-remembering of what intimacy feels like. What's more odd, though slightly exhilarating, is that I'm not in any hurry to refresh my memory.

quizzically speaking...

Since I've been so, well, glum here lately, I figured I'd inject a little whimsy and humor into a recently relatively humorless space...

You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?
Donald Trump. Not that I have any sort of vendetta against the man, but he annoys the crap out of me. I mean, if you're worth a billion some-odd dollars, wouldn't you get a better haircut? And he also continues to remain -- with Hugh Hefner -- a horribly distasteful reminder that we live in a culture in which men are valued for their money and women for their attractiveness.

You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence...
This is a no-brainer. Ted Nugent, without a doubt. That man is a blight on the soul of humanity in more ways than possibly could be enumerated. If he's already dead, though, I think I'd flip the switch to off Regina Spektor; her voice is like fingernails on the chalkboard for me.

Who would you really like to just punch in the face?
I know M. answered "Ann Coulter" on her version of this survey, but I'm not really feelin' it. Honestly (and possibly surprisingly) I have very little desire to punch anyone in the face right now. Stealing from a line in 28 Days: I don't need any more face-punching stories. I have enough face-punching stores. I want a face-punching-free life.

What is your favorite cheese?
Oh, hands down the rice cheese slices you can get -- I like the cheddar ones, but the American slices sure do make up a damned good grilled cheese sandwich...

You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your immediate disposal.
The answer to this for the past few years has been the seitan reuben from Earwax Cafe. I've been going at least once a week for the past couple of months and I'm still not tired of it. But if Earwax Cafe burned down and no one could make me that sandwich, No. 2 is Leona's big fat vegan burger, and No. 3 is the vegan Polish sausage with sauerkraut and mustard at the Lake Side Cafe.

You have the opportunity to sleep with the movie celebrity of your choice.
Honestly, I don't know. I've been putting the idea of sleeping with anyone out of my head for so long now that I've lost all desire to think effectively about this question.

You have the opportunity to sleep with the music celebrity of your choice.
Ditto.

Now that you've slept with two different people in a row, you seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. What do you buy?
Well, I'm not having an excellent day, since I apparently can't decide which movie star or which music celebrity to have sex with, so I suppose I'd treat myself to a day at the spa.

You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?
Definitely New York City. I wanted to go this month, but it's been recommended to me that I wait until I have a few more 24-hours under my belt before I start going out of town willy-nilly. Right now the plan is to go in mid-December or early January. I've never been to New York in the winter time and I can't wait!

An angel appears out of heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the beverage of your choice. It is?
S. Pellegrino, hands-down. I drink about 10 big bottles a week at this point. It's sooo yummy, especially with lime.

What's in the trunk of your car right now?
Well, I don't really have a trunk of my car. But in the little space between the hatchback and the back seat resides a small collection of toys, a few college textbooks sent to me by overzealous publishers' reps for consideration for use in my classes, some empty S. Pellegrino bottles, and lots of random paper.

Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-traveling phone booth. You can go anywhere in the PAST. Where do you go?
I would go back to the day my parents met -- my dad was in a convertible with a friend of his and my mom and her friends were walking down the street; the car stopped at a light, my dad invited my mom and her friends to hop in, and they did, and the rest is history -- and tell my mom not to hop in that car. Yeah, I know I'd never have been born... but so much pain in the world would have been avoided.

You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?
That it's a strictly vegetarian society.

You have been given the opportunity to create the half-hour TV show of your own design. What is it called?
These days, it would probably be Sober and the City. Ha ha ha.

What is your favorite curse word?
Holy crap! And if that's not a "real" curse word, it's probably Fuck!

One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by mummies. The mummies aren't really doing anything. What do you do?
Go back to sleep? I mean, if they aren't really doing anything, what's the point? Maybe I've got my mummy knowledge all wrong, but aren't they harmless?

Your house is on fire! What do you do ?
Liberate my cat, grab my laptop & my photo albums, and get out.

The Angel of Death has descended upon you. Fortunately, the Angel of Death is pretty cool and in a good mood, and it offers you a half-hour to do whatever you want before you bite it. What do you do?
I suppose I'd make a really quick list of the people I'd harmed and call to apologize, then spend the rest of the time with my kiddos.

You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what's even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What super-power is it?
I would definitely immediately possess the scales of justice and the power to set them permanently and irretrievably right for all time.

You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?
It sounds bizarre, but I think the half-hour surrounding the time when I shaved my head before I had brain surgery. I threw this hair party at my house, and many of the hip mamas showed up with their kiddos and we did hair-dyeing and I buzzed my hair and we drank some bourbon and I think it was really the first time since I found out I had the tumor that I knew my friends would really be able to see me through the whole thing.

You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?
June 5, 2007. And you either know what happened that day or you don't.... so don't ask.

You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check this out… you can move to anywhere. Where you gonna go?
Dude, but I haven't slept with those celebrities so why am I being punished? Sigh. Ah, well. I would move to London, but only because this guy I met over the summer told me that the only city better than New York City is London, and he seems like the sort of guy who'd know what he was talking about.

This question still counts, even for those of you who are under age, if you were banned from every bar in the world except one, which one would it be?
Definitely The Hideout, if we're talking about Illinois. If we're talking about Texas, it would be Gruene Hall.

Hopefully you didn't mention this in the super-powers question... If you did, then we'll just expound on that. Who would you go visit first if you could fly?
Duh. Of course it would be New York City. And if that somehow were impossible, I'd fly to Texas to see my little brother.

The constant absorption of magical moon beams mixed with the radioactive vegetables you consumed earlier has given you the ability to resurrect the dead famous person of your choice. So which celebrity will you bring back to life?
Mr. Rogers. I think the world is a little sadder without him in it.

birds, boys, and (no) booze

I. Birds
When A. and I first went vegan, he read an animal rights book in which the author talked about what to do when coming across dead animals -- such as in the street or on the sidewalk. The author -- who, I can't remember -- argued that if one is truly to embrace the principles of animal rights, one should be a bit more observant of dead animals in our culture, and he used the example of dead babies (I think): if we saw a dead baby in the middle of the road or on the sidewalk, would we just step over it or drive on by without giving it a second thought? And since part of animal rights is affording all creatures the respect they are due, doesn't that mean not stepping over dead animals or driving on by them on the road (within reason)? My answer has been yes, it does.

And so a couple of years ago, when I saw a dead dog in the road, I stopped and used a plastic bag I had in the back of my car to pick her up and place her in the bushes on the side of the road, and then called animal control to come get her. And today, walking back from a yummy lunch at Le Peep (baked apple oatmeal, wheat toast & black coffee) to pick up W. from school, when I saw a small wren belly-up on Peoria Street, I scooped her up and placed her in the flower beds of one of the condo complexes on Madison. But, no, that's not entirely accurate. I saw the bird and walked past her for a whole block before I realized what I'd done & turned around to fix my mistake.

Lesson: There is no shame in turning back to do the right thing, even if you didn't do it the first time around.

II. Boys
When I arrived at the school after righting my bird wrongs, I had a chance to talk to W.'s teacher. I knew there have been some problems in the classroom, but I was surprised to hear why. The way the learning center works is that he has an hour with each teacher: one hour of math and science, one of language arts. And in both classes, he's finishing an hour's worth of work in about five minutes -- and completely grasping the concepts almost immediately, which is definitely a good thing. The problem: he gets bored and starts causing trouble. His teachers pointed out he probably belongs with the eighth or ninth grade classes -- what the hell is with my children?!?! -- but that those kids would likely eat him alive (gee, ya think?) and they cautioned against radical acceleration (I agree; one kid graduating from high school at 14 is enough for me).

The short-term solution is to accelerate him within the classroom, give him that eighth and ninth grade work while everyone else is working on sixth and seventh grade stuff. They suggested he can also work on his novel (he's participating in NaNoWriMo through 826Chicago) or take on a "leadership" role in the classroom, since one of his strengths is the ability to analyze problems quickly and efficiently and then explain what needs to be done to other students. And I suppose that works for the moment, but everyone is concerned about the long-term issues: How do you get such a kid to work well with people who don't process things as quickly? How can you make "regular" work challenging when it's really, well, not? How do you slow down a brain (and is it even a good idea to try)? And the biggest problem of all: since my own educational experience was exactly the same, from the minute I entered kindergarten until my last class of graduate school, how on Earth am I going to help him get through this?

Realization: W. is facing problems I've grappled with my entire life, which means I have the opportunity to be a really good mom to him as he struggles to do the right things.

III. (No) Booze
Lately I'm reminded of how I felt when I was diagnosed with my tumor: once I learned a foreign object was invading my brain, there was no turning back. I was consistently and constantly aware that things would never be the same. Whether they operated, whether I needed radiation, whether the tumor turned out to be benign or malignant, I would always be the woman with a brain tumor and it didn't really matter whether I used past or present tense when mentioning that fact. (Actually, I still find that impossible to comprehend, since it's such an incomprehensible thing...) And with this whole alcoholism thing... it's rough. There are moments I forget and I go on with my life as though everything is exactly the same as it was two months ago or six months ago or this time last year. But every time I remember that, once again, things will never be the same, I feel as though someone sucker punched me.

I think there are probably two sides to the process of acceptance and surrender: the admission that life sucks (you're powerless + things are unmanageable) but then there is also a (perhaps reluctant) embrace of the facts: this is who I am (an alcoholic) and that's not ever going to change, even if I forget about it for 20 minutes while I'm making muffins or half an hour when I'm playing Tetris on my commute or during a 24-hour period in which I think it's okay to skip a meeting or two.

Today, I was planning my schedule for the next few months. Traditionally, I've plugged my classes in, then my work schedule, then my spare time. This time around, my priorities have shifted: the first thing that went in were my meetings -- not that I am refusing work or classes because of them (there are enough at this point that I really like that I have several options every day), but I am considering them first. And the funny thing is that I did it without really even thinking -- which I happen to consider pretty cool, especially taking into account that the past ten days or so have been entirely intolerable, which might lead a lot of other people to chuck all this program crap and go back out to the bars. (Being the eternal perfectionist, my solution is to run more forcefully into the flames, and so I'm stepping up "my program" in measurable ways...)

Acceptance: I know what needs to be done (based on who I am), even if at any given moment, all that abounds is confusion, hopelessness, despair, frustration, and anger.

grace shmace

Grace is given to heal the spiritually sick, not to decorate spiritual heroes.

-- Martin Luther

It's no huge secret that things have been, well, intolerable for about 99% of the past 216 hours, and they are not getting any better. Well, that's not entirely true. The waves of remarkable pain and confusion and fear keep rolling in, and with each turn of the tide they are growing stronger and more forceful and I'm at the point where I've become almost entirely certain I will drown in a tsunami or a monsoon or some other freak phenomenon. What's getting better is that I'm putting together a string of these intolerable days and realizing that, well, I'm not dead yet.

Today, I have my friends to thank for my not standing in the middle of Lincoln Avenue and letting the #11 bus "accidentally" smush me. From A., V., and L. (who talked me through the day on Gmail chat) to M.'s text messages, I felt as though I could let go for a little while of trying to keep myself alive and a whole bunch of other people could worry about that whole I don't have the will to live anymore nonsense. And I am most grateful for R., who jump-started an email thread on the hip mama list entitled Nice things about A., in which mama after mama added the things they like best about me. On one level, it just made me more sad -- thinking of how much people love me and how highly they think of me when I can barely love myself -- but on another it was the deepest and most meaningful of instance of grace in my life so far.

I'm still not okay -- far from it, actually. But I guess somehow that, in itself, is okay. There are people -- in and out of the program -- who can heal my spiritual sickness when I feel least able to do so myself. I have to believe that one day things will get better (and I am taking steps to help that process along). I have absolutely no clue how or when that will happen, but I have faith that it will. And, hot damn, I love my friends.

a distinct lack of gratitude

I'm having a hard time with the whole gratitude thing today.

After my doctor left a message today about my "abnormal" Pap results, I called back thinking it was probably nothing and found out it actually probably is something and they just need to now find out how bad that something -- whatever it is -- is. But it could mean anything from watching & waiting to cutting out a small part of my body to removing internal organs to which I've actually grown attached over the years.

I am so annoyed by everyone today -- just being in the same room with the boys made me think I should send W. to military school and B. to live with his dad, so then I could take a nice long bath and find some non-painful way to accidentally and tragically die so they could get my life insurance money. (And it doesn't help that I'm still in a great deal of back pain...)

And then I met up with V. for dinner before the Tori Amos show and she reminded me that it will be a year on Wednesday that a super-close friend of hers died from ovarian cancer and how she now has this cyst on her ovary that is causing problems and it's the type that often (usually?) turns cancerous at some point. And it makes no sense at all, but this overwhelming sense of dread rushed over me as I started thinking about how we're at the age where our main medical complaints aren't just UTIs or yeast infections or rug burns from having too much rough sex -- we're dealing with things that are really fucking scary.

The dread -- which has not left me -- was from the realization that at some point, these women I love -- the ones who helped me through brain surgery and held my hand through painful breakups and invite me over to their homes when my son gets caught shoplifting and I want to get blitzed -- are going to die. We are going to face horrible and scary and painful illnesses, and we are going to lose each other. And the only thing I can think of tonight is how much that really, really sucks.

walking in place

There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.

-- Nelson Mandela

I've been re-watching movies: Garden State, Muriel's Wedding, Stranger Than Fiction, All the Real Girls, The Shawshank Redemption. I'm fascinated by how differently I view things now, how the films take on both more and less meaning than I'd attributed to them before. And they are concrete examples of how much I've changed without realizing it: a filter through which I can gauge my own responses to crises in my life and how over the short course of 40 days things can get measurably better while feeling at my absolute worst.

The past 24 hours have been an almost minute-by-minute struggle to retain my sanity and regain my serenity, but that's okay.

self-love from a dirty whore

Disclaimer: The title of this blog post will only make sense to two other people in the world, so if you're not one of them, don't even bother trying to figure it out. Just deal with it.

I've always preferred to think of myself as a stoic person, the sort of woman who could see her child run over by a drunk driver, have him die in her arms, and then make it through it all -- the ride to the morgue, the funeral, the burial, the grieving -- with a certain degree of grace and aplomb. Sure, I'd be devastated. But Super (fictional) Me -- in this tragic yet hypothetical and implausible scenario -- is able to contain her grief in an oh-so-appropriate and socially pleasant manner, and when she does cry (rarely, if ever), it is at home, in the bathroom, with the water running and the door double-locked.

S(f)M was mortally wounded at 6:05pm Saturday on the escalator of the Target store on Peterson Avenue, when a police officer tapped (the oh-so-real) me on the shoulder, pointed at W. and asked, Ma'am, is this your son? And S(f)M was officially pronounced dead when W. stood in the middle of the store's security office and emptied his pockets of well more than $100 worth of merchandise he'd pilfered in an impressively methodical fashion over the course of an hour.

I went to an 8pm meeting, thinking it would be a good place to bury S(f)M. When I shared, I broke down -- a bad, bad, bad thing to do in a meeting filled with men, including some attractive ones, including one really attractive one who hugged me (uh, to comfort me...) several times after the meeting and I had to actively tell myself NO! NO! NO! NO! the entire time. And really, the last thing in the world I needed to hear was a dozen alcoholic men sharing stories about the first time they'd been caught shoplifting.

So, no. S(f)M was instead buried with a move she never would make: calling V. in hysteric tears and saying I am going to drink in three seconds and receiving an immediate without-hesitation You can't do that; come hang out with me at L.'s house. And S(f)M was mourned as I poured it out at L.'s house and both V. and L. just listened and said -- more or less -- it could well have been their own children, and I realized the enormity of my problem was such that it could neither be solved at once nor altogether ignored, and I filed it all in a mental god-box and just participated.

It's not superhuman and it's not heroic and it's not some grand dramatic scene in a movie, but it's so simple and profound that it floors me: I am blessed. I don't know what kept me sober tonight -- since I'd still pretty much kill for a drink right now and just thinking about W. makes my head hurt -- but it damn well feels like a tad bit of grace. (And of course, a lot of friendship.) Namaste.

thirty-eight...

Unless you count hunching over like a orangutan, I was unable to walk all day. After several sober people pointed out that taking pain medication for, well, pain is much different than recreational drug use, I took the damn Vicodin. Besides, I totally would've gotten drunk otherwise. It was just that bad.

funny ha ha

During a break in the hallucinations from the pain misleadingly called "back spasms" and looking at the bottle of what I thought was prescription-strength ibuprofen, I notice those fat white pills are actually erythromycin, which goes a long way toward explaining why I felt nauseated and feverish all through the night. Uh, yeah, that bottle's in the trash... but now I'm wondering where I put the 800-mg ibuprofen tabs. They can't be behind my entertainment center-cum-bookcase, because that's where I found the Vicodin after searching for half an hour...

degeneration...

I am in extraordinary pain. I cannot get up off the couch. I cannot stand upright. I cannot walk. I cannot type without spasms of pain shooting throughout my back and down my left leg and up to my left arm. I've broken down and cried twice in the past two hours because of the intensity of the pain. It hurts so much, I am nauseated and quite nearly feverish. Ibuprofen isn't working. Prescription-strength Aleve isn't working. A hot bath didn't help (and I almost accidentally killed myself trying to climb out). Ice didn't help (and I wasted $19 at Walgreens for an ice pack). The only things left: killing myself on purpose or taking one of the two Vicodin I have left from when they were prescribed in March for "breakthrough back pain." Instead, I'm evading the issue and going to bed, hoping that sleep and rest will help enough that I will be able to walk in the morning.

walking, ca. 1980

Before moving to Texas in late 1981, my family lived in Elmhurst, a Chicago suburb in which my parents had spent their entire lives, though on different sides of the railroad tracks that sliced through the town's sleepy center. Three houses north of us was the Illinois Prairie Path, a crushed limestone-covered trail my friends and I would ride a few blocks to the east, a few blocks to the west, back and forth, for hours. Going too far in either direction -- past the bridge to the left or past the park to the right -- was the next best thing to running away, but the few times I dared, I always fell off my bike and skinned my knee or absentmindedly ran into a tree while trying to ride without any hands, as though an invisible barrier kept me tethered in place.

Not that my range of motion was necessarily all that small. Spring Road -- two short blocks to the east -- was the busiest street near us, four lanes with no stop signs to slow down north-south traffic. And starting when I was about five, my mother would send me to the White Hen convenience store -- across Spring Road -- for a gallon of milk and, sometimes, a loaf of bread. Some of my earliest memories are of standing for what seemed like hours, praying and waiting for the stream of cars to stop and let me pass so I could get the milk and bread -- and even worse was getting the milk and waiting an equally long time to cross back over Spring Road. I was always so proud to arrive home without getting run over by a car or dropping the milk. It wasn't until I had children of my own and saw how small and weak and, well, incapable five-year-olds are that I found this situation odd.

By the time I turned seven, I'd been yanked out of Lincoln Elementary (the neighborhood school just south of our house) for throwing books at my first-grade teacher and enrolled at Immaculate Conception, the educational arm of the Catholic church we attended every Sunday. It was about a mile and a half away, in downtown Elmhurst, and when it rained or snowed, my mother would give me twenty cents for a round-trip ride on the city bus. Barring inclement weather, though, I walked to school.

It was easy at first. I didn't necessarily know how to get back and forth on my own, but some older girls from our neighborhood also made the daily trek, and I learned to stay close enough to see them but far enough away that they wouldn't see me (and therefore tease me). But one day a few weeks into the school year, following them, it became increasingly clear that they were walking in a completely different direction, and I panicked. I tried to retrace my steps, and I got lost. I tried to retrace the retracing, to see if I could suck it up and ask the older girls where to go, but they were gone. I started wandering aimlessly around downtown Elmhurst, frantically looking for landmarks or familiar houses or even a police officer, but it was all jumbled around in my head, and I probably wouldn't have even been intelligible if someone had asked my name.

After some time, I found an Illinois Bell office. My dad worked for them, albeit as a cable repairman, so he wouldn't have been there, but I thought that if I could just get inside, someone would be able to find him, and he would come get me. The only problem: the building was for employees only, with only one door, and the entire enterprise was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with sharp metal spikes. In my tiny seven-year-old brain, the only logical thing was to scale the fence, which I did, slicing my knee up in the process (and, sadly, tearing my Catholic schoolgirl uniform skirt). Bleeding and torn and exhausted, I pounded at the company's door for what seemed like hours, until an angry old man opened up, took one look at me, and shut me out. I pounded some more and a different old man opened the door, and saw what must have been a pathetic sight: a sweaty bleeding sobbing little girl with dirt smudges on her face wailing, Help me! I'm lost!

By the time my mother was called, I had been missing for nearly two hours. I can still hear the sound of the wheels squealing as she pulled the car around the corner and screeched to a halt in front of the phone company. She ordered me inside, scarcely thanking the old man, and proceeded to yell -- no, scream apoplectically -- until her face turned beet-red and she quite nearly lost her breath. That mile-and-half drive home was excruciating; I don't know what was scarier: I can't believe you've DONE this to me! I have dinner in the oven! at 110 decibels or my mother blowing stop signs and red lights to get home, where -- she swore -- I'd be sorry.

At home, I was grounded and told to change into my pajamas. I went to bed without dinner, but only after my mother had me pull down my underwear and spanked my bare bottom a dozen times with a flat wooden spoon, and only after I wrote I will never get lost again 500 times in neat second-grade print on looseleaf paper -- crinkled sheets I'd find years later when going through boxes of my belongings my mother gave to me after she cleaned out our storage space. I readily accepted the blame. I knew I should have done better. I fell asleep before my father came home, since I didn't want to hear how much I'd disappointed him, too. I didn't know why, but I knew it was all my fault.

I was 25 before I realized that other seven-year-olds probably got the twenty cents to take the bus every day. My own son was seven when I realized my parents never hugged me when I was scared and that other parents probably would have given their children popsicles, hugs, and kisses. But this is just a story. It really isn't even about me anymore. It's just something that happened a long time ago.