Young

I just found out I saw Neil Young once.  Imagine that?

Beck (you may remember him from such hit songs as “Loser” and “Where It’s At”) was on a TV show tonight; I remarked to my boyfriend that I saw him live back in the day and that he was good.  I paused, thinking of my fragmented memories of him.  The images of distant , spotlit Beck shimmered and danced — elongated like a funhouse mirror.   Nausea came in waves, waves elongated like a funhouse mirror.  I don’t think I puked.  I was pretty lit by the time he came on though.

It was the H.O.R.D.E. tour. (Never heard of it, whippersnappers?  Stands for “Horizons of Rock Developing Everywhere” and was akin to Lollapalooza, another music fest’ you surely must have heard your parents bragging about attending).

I remembered seeing an outstanding band called Morphine who quickly commenced playing on endless loops on the CD player in my car.  The lead singer ultimately died.  I can’t see them again.

That balmy summer night piggybacked on a sunny summer day.  I had a belly full of beer:  the dusky images of stage lights, stars on stage, stars in the sky, sunset streaks in purpled hues, 20-somethings in shorts and tanks all whizzed by in magnificent jumpy blurs.  I smiled at the night, the tingling euphoria gathering momentum in my legs, staggering from show to show to beer tent.  My beer sloshing back and forth as I staggered from beer tent to show to show.

Tonight I strained my brain to recall who else played.  Was it Primus?  I’ve seen them a couple of times, but couldn’t remember where.  Yes.  They were there, according to Google.  And ………. Neil Young.   I scoured articles about the ’97 H.O.R.D.E. tour.  Had he headlined the whole thing?  Or just some dates in California?  Maybe a guest appearance in Chicago?  Nope.  The whole shebang.  I shook my head in disbelief.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a tremendous fan. I don’t even own any of his work — but I respect it.  He’s a legend.  And he was there.  But I wasn’t.

I remember with striking clarity an obese lady with a t-shirt with an iron-on type of decal.  I remember laughing, thinking how passe .  How terribly early ’80’s.  I looked closer.  It was a naked woman , full frontal.  She had a dick in front of her face – the man slightly off camera – and jism on her upper lip.  The t-shirt read, “Got Milk?  Where’s YOUR mustache?”   an allusion to the health campaign of the time.  Positively HORRIFYING.  But it was there.  I remember that with such clarity.  Why that?  Why not the Neilster?

Blues Traveler was there.  I blinked blankly at the list of bands before me.  Did not ring a bell.  Toad the Wet Sprocket. I didn’t remember their being there either.  I would not have been interested at the time — but I scratched my head, squinting stupidly at the list of bands.    Soul Coughing.  They actually WERE my thing.  I don’t remember them.  I cocked my head, staring at the computer monitor.  How could that be?  How could I not remember?  This is not ringing a bell.

All I had was that day, that summer day in 1997.  August 6th.  I blew it.  If I got pulled over, I’m sure I would have really blown it …. probably a BAC 0.350% anyway.  (And to clarify, I wasn’t the driver that night — thank God.  But I wasn’t above drinking and driving).   Neil Young was 51 then.  I will never have a chance to see him at that age again.  He’s in his 70’s now.    There is no do-over.  Time moves forward, with or without me, and doesn’t wait for me to catch up.

While I don’t have that day, while I have no time machine, I have this day.  And I choose sobriety.  Next week I see Roger Waters. You can bet your ass I’ll be sober.  I’ll remember it, too.  By the grace of God.

 

Great Article – 6 Things I Learned …….

I found this wonderful article.  It’s about what she learned in her 2 years’ sober.  I hope she stays sober much much longer so she can see how many more things she’ll learn!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kelly-fitzgerald/6-things-i-learned-during-two-years-without-alcohol_b_7235048.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000032

The “After” Myth

There is no after ……….. important concept for me to remember as an alcoholic and addict .

Can Anybody Hear Me?

After.

It’s here.

In my first post, Before, 3 years ago, I said “I’m not to After yet, but I’m closer to After than to Before.”

I now weigh 117 – 120 pounds (depending on the day), and standing at 5-foot 6-inches, that measurement means that After is very, very here. But, before you congratulate me, dear readers…if I have any…and dear friends and family who I know follow this blog… I have to come clean with you: I don’t feel like I’m at After. I’m terrified of being at After. And, I don’t like that After is here.

The tagline of my blog is “uncovering myself one pound at a time.” For most of this blog, I’ve spoken strongly about how my relationship with food and myself was what caused my weight struggles. I stand by that. The thing is, the symptoms have resolved faster than I’ve been able to…

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Independence Day

It’s July 3rd as I write this. I can’t help but think about how I LOVED the 4th of July.

Poolside cocktails. Beer and volleyball. Shots and sparklers. I reveled in having a holiday where it was socially acceptable to drink. All. Day. Long. I felt like I could let my hair down and be …. myself. So aside from the fun and games there were other things:

Ditching the parade because it was too early and loud and I was hungover. Walking through my then-boss’s screen door and being so wasted that I kept walking, the door on the deck with my foot in the middle pushing it along with a metallic scrrrrrraaaaaaaaape. I stared stupidly at the white metal frame and the broken screen, my sneakered snookered foot in the middle. “Get off of our door!” A voice shouted. I giggled and lifted my foot. I staggered, swayed away.

On another 4th , I got stung by a bee inside my lip . Can you believe it!? I was hot and playing volleyball and stopped to go pound my can of beer. Something wiggled angrily in my mouth and I spit out a bee. My lip swelled WAY out. I was kind of happy. I liked the concern people showed me (I could not get enough booze and I could not get enough sympathy) AND I liked that I was slurring and they knew I wasn’t drunk. That might come in handy later when I’m getting ready to leave.

I remember my first sober 4th of July. I was pregnant. I was relieved. I hated the thought of not being able to drink on the 4th of July. I hated the thought way back in January! Yeah, I was already thinking about that and wondering what I had gotten myself into. But I was glad to be pregnant. I “knew” I wouldn’t drink. Knowing what I know now …… I know that pregnant alcoholics DO sometimes drink. And it was by the grace of God that I didn’t. I went to meetings, but I was bitter. I didn’t “get it.” I think I went to my ex-husband’s family’s cook-out. It was nice. Good food, nice people. I stopped feeling like I was missing out on something. A couple of them had ONE or TWO beers. Some were unfinished. I was perplexed. I knew I couldn’t do that.

I think of the independence I have today. Now it’s a real independence day. I don’t have to worry about whether or not I’ll have enough booze and how late package stores will be open. I don’t have to worry about someone’s silence, wondering if it is in response to something I said or did. I don’t have to worry that I’ll drive home drunk. I won’t have to take “the back way” to ensure I don’t get pulled over. I won’t have to inspect my car for dings ……. or even rush outside first thing to make sure it’s there. I will wake up with someone I love waking up to. I won’t have hazy memories of someone’s horrified face after I blurted out a filthy joke — and feel that remorse and then mold it into anger and bitterness because she was such a freakin’ prude and therefore absolving myself of any and all responsibility. I won’t have to figure out if it’s okay to have coffee on my sloshy stomach. I won’t smack my lips and grimace at my vomit breath. I will be able to look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

There’s a lot to be thankful for. I’m glad I have my dependence on a higher power and my independence. Have a safe and happy 4th.

Death By Misadventure

That was how I wanted to go. Having imbibed too much. Sounded nice – and neat and clean. No blood splatters or wrecked cars. Just alcohol poisoning. Would be like dying in my sleep, wouldn’t it? And sleeping people are pretty and peaceful looking. No harm done, right?

I didn’t think that choking on my own vomit and getting kicked into a life-and-death struggle to breathe for the last few minutes of my life wasn’t a thought that entered my mind — that acrid taste, that suffocating smell, and not having the physical ability to get up. I didn’t think about the horrible discomfort of hypothermia, my body temperature plummeting and being unable to get warm. Seizures would be possible, too.

I’ll stop and take your question now. “If one experiences death by misadventure on purpose , then that is suicide, isn’t it?”

Ohhhhhhhh, you raise a very good point. You do. But that was the beauty of it. I didn’t want to plan this. I wanted to experience it. I wanted it to be a surprise even to me. Ohhhhh, you got me. I guess this is what they call “passive suicidal ideation” in the psych world, right?

Of course how this would impact my family was beyond me. This was in part because I was so fucking selfish and partly because my self-esteem was at a crisis level. Death by overdose or alcohol poisoning or accident following a “celebration” is just so selfish; it’s the ultimate in having the last word on your bad behaviors.

But I think about what Layne Staley (former lead singer of Alice In Chains) said of his then late-stage addiction: “This f—ing drug use is like the insulin a diabetic needs to survive,” he said. “I’m not using drugs to get high like many people think. I know I made a big mistake when I started using this sh–. It’s a very difficult thing to explain. My liver is not functioning and I’m throwing up all the time and sh—ing my pants. The pain is more than you can handle. It’s the worst pain in the world. Dope sick hurts the entire body.”

Yes, he did Heroin. Do you remember him like this?:

Because remember he was once someone’s:

I identify with his quote, though. At first I drank to feel good. In the end I drank to NOT feel bad. That was the best I could shoot for. I couldn’t get drunk anymore. I just had to feel as close to normal as possible. Stop the shakes. Stop the high-voltage nervous system from doing its thing to my body and to my thoughts. Stop my heart from rambling on its bumpy-road-expressway. Dry up ……… dry up the sweats.

At that point I detested it. It was my master. It no longer served me; I served it , and I couldn’t stop. The consequences of not drinking were far worse and more immediate than the consequences of drinking.

Death by Misadventure. Sounded so appealing. Sounded so Hollywood. Sounded so Front Page. Sounded like the final , exciting crescendo before the final silence. And yet it sounded so peaceful. No more shakes. Just serenity.

Thank God my misadventures didn’t take me out. I remember everything seeming so hopeless and dark. I wanted the things other people had: families, houses, cars, jobs, etc. I had no idea how blissful it would feel to not only have those things but to know what to do with them. In early recovery I was like a dog chasing a car. If I caught one, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

Poor Layne. He had fortune and fame. I don’t know about the family. I’m sure his relationships with everyone were pitiful and hurtful. He must have hurt people and known it. There must have been shame and all of the normal things we experience when we realize what we are doing to people. In his last interview, he asked the interviewer not to tell his sister Liz. He knew what it was doing to people.

How nice it would have been if he could have had the relationships worked out. We have that chance. We’re alive here today. We have that chance.

Taking Responsibility ……

So I’ll bet you read the title and thought this would be a Ninth Step kind of post. Or maybe I did my searching and fearless inventory and am taking responsibility for some newly discovered dark thing about me.

No. No. Alas, no.

What I write about is this kind of responsibility one should not take. Taking responsibility for someone else’s shit.

Yes, I’m an alcoholic and addict. But don’t we all have someone in our lives who, too, is an alcoholic or addict? And don’t they do to us what we did to others?

What I’m getting at is when a loved one relapses. I go to that “I should have seen it coming” place. I scrutinize the events and interactions leading up to the other person’s relapse. I put the days after they started using under the microscope. Many “aha” moments are enlarged there. The sleepy, glossy eyes. The fingers in the mouth — this person ALWAYS puts their fingers in the mouth when they’re using. Like a baby who rebels against sleep just as much as he or she wants it.

Somehow the whole feeling “duped” thing is something I’m taking responsibility for. Why am I responsible for being duped? Why isn’t it HIS responsibility for lying? That’s right. It is his responsibility.

And I can’t make him take responsibility for that. I can’t make him stop using. I can’t make him admit to using — been there, done that.

I put myself under that microscope as well. I squint and enlarge and probe. Was I in denial? Or was I giving a heaping, happy, healthy , loving dose of “benefit of the doubt?” Here I am going back to that place…….. I should have seen it coming. Or maybe I did see it coming but didn’t.

So I’ve been doing all of these things. But I’m going to stop. Just for today. Just for today I’m going to sit and be with me and accept that things are the way they are and that I’m powerless. Of course, I’ll have to see what happens when a counter-intuitive train of thought comes clacking and rattling into the station at top speed. I often get into a positive, powerful “just for today frame of mind” and unwittingly hop on these trains when they arrive. I have the power to watch them thunder past me, papers and dust flying in their wakes. I don’t always execute that power.

Good night.

Pissing on Your Foot & Telling You It’s Raining

“No, I’m not drinking,” I would protest or whine or insist or yell or mutter or slur or shout or maintain or report or say or mumble or sputter or whisper or hiss……. or belch or snicker. Depended on the day and who was doing the asking.

“I only had a couple…….” I would counter or insist or demand or swear sincerely or ask or state earnestly or attest or report or mumble or sputter or whisper or hiss…… or belch. Depended on the day and who was doing the asking.

No matter how I said it, one of two things would happen:

The person would call me out on my lie — this was verrrrrry occasionally.

OR (more likely):

Their lips would flat-line, their eyes would squint, their eyebrows would furrow, and – almost invariably – they would fold their arms. Sometimes there would be an additional gesture such as an impatient foot tapping or an irate eye-roll. But usually the lips would straighten into a thin line and the eyes would squint.

People just didn’t have the patience to play the “yes you did”/”no I didn’t” game. The alcoholic or addict always can hold out longer and pull out evidence that would never be admissible in a court of law, typically beginning with the sentence-starter: “Even ask _________ [so-and-so].”

Yes. We had proof positive. And reliable alibis. And charrrrrrrrrrrrm. And puppy eyes.

When I saw the lips flat-line and the eyes squint -or ……….. no, let me derail that train of thought. I would also insist on my abstinence to sometimes two people. Did you ever do that? And BOTH their lips flat-lined and they would make eye contact with one another? Silence that said SO much. That made me feel instantly ganged up on, outnumbered, pissed off, and willing to double my efforts to persuade them to believe me.

Sometimes I would see shoulders slouch back down, eyes soften, a smile ease into the flat-lined lips and warming them. I won them over. But this was rare and I knew it. But I fought that fight every time. Trying to win them over.

I’d take the proverbial piss on their feet and tell them it’s raining. I’d tell them to ignore the temperature – ignore the sunshine and there being NO clouds in the sky – and ask them to ignore the color yellow. It’s raining. It’s supposed to be happening. You’re supposed to have wet feet. Everyone has wet feet this time of year! And they would walk away with their wet feet ska-winching in their soaked sneakers, smiling and thinking this was normal. I persuaded them. Sometimes.

The squint. The flat-lining lips. I kept insisting.

Those empty bottles under the table cloth of the end table? They are someone else’s from before. My staggering? I stood up too fast and my blood pressure is low and how DARE you pick on me about a medical condition I can’t control. The smell on my breath? You’re imagining things.

Oh, yes. I’d boomerang any evidence so they would question their own judgment and sanity, and in the end they would feel guilty for having tinkered with such a nice lady like me.

“You’re as sick as your secrets,” they are wont to say in Al-anon. And they’re right. And I had a million secrets stacked on secrets shoved in drawers between secrets shoved in closets of secrets inside attics of secret basements…… I didn’t know where I kept them all and couldn’t keep them straight.

I realize just exactly how free I am today. I am relatively secret-free. Except the occasional appropriate secret such as what I got you for your birthday (you’re going to love it) and what I did the other night ……… ’cause nice girls don’t kiss and tell. And sometimes they do nothing, but they don’t need to advertise that either.

I am free. I can look people in the eye. I don’t have to hesitate before answering questions, trying to remember what I told them last time or what I told this person’s spouse because I need the lies to be consistent…………. I am not accused of anything. I don’t need a defense today. I’m free. I’m out of the prison of my own making.

They say to “live like someone left the gate open” (and the saying is superimposed over a spritely little puppy in running joyously in midair). I hope to do that. But for now, I’m just happy that I left the gate open and I’m out and about. Free.

Green Is the New Black

Jagger saw a red door and he wants it painted black….

I saw some shamrocks and I want them to turn black.
No greenery anymore, I want it to turn black.
I watch people walk by dressed in their St. Patrick’s clothes.
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes………….

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Well, maybe St. Patrick’s Day isn’t that bad, that filled with darkness.

My brother passed away on St. Patrick’s Day, but I don’t begrudge drinkers their green beers and Guinness. I don’t begrudge the ski areas their green snow. I don’t begrudge restaurants their fiddle music and corned beef. I don’t begrudge McDonald’s their Shamrock Shakes (I’m drinking one now). I don’t begrudge the masses wearing green t-shirts, green berets, green hats, green beads, shamrock pins & jewelry ………. ohhhhhh, it’s heartbreakingly everywhere. I entered a grocery store yesterday and saw multitudes of green carnations. I burst. But I don’t begrudge the world flowers, either.

I try to imagine if I relapsed. I imagine I would spend St. Patrick’s Day in a bar. Since today is a Sunday and the holiday has stretched its legs across the whole weekend, I imagine my trip to the bar would’ve started on Friday with a few naps and a couple of fights before Monday morning. I imagine I would have rapid-cycling mood swings in the bar and I’d be wailing about my poor brother and expecting free drinks and to be the center of attention – – sympathy, please! That cup would be impossible to fill. I would be just as greedy for sympathy as I would alcohol. No question about it. I would also probably become hostile and confrontational to anyone who irritated me and I would feel justified because “it’s a tough time for me right now.”

Because I did NOT relapse, because I have an outstanding network who helped me through this tough time, I am still sober. Because of the 12 steps of AA I am still sober – particularly since I worked them before the shit hit the fan. They would not have worked for me in an emergency and only in an emergency.

My new tradition to cope with the loss is to go to an AA meeting. Let me rephrase that. I have ALWAYS gone to a meeting on this day, but now I choose to attend an anniversary meeting. It’s nice to go and see people surviving and life getting better and better. It’s a celebration of a new life. I go and a lump grows in my throat. Tears pool in my eyes. I keep tissues and listen as best I can. With this rollercoaster of emotions, I don’t always hear the full story.

My brother died 4 years ago today to the day. Today the celebrant was, in fact, celebrating 4. It was very moving (and powerful!) to go to a meeting and hear about the day when someone’s new life was just beginning as my brother’s ended. It was beautiful. It seemed everything came full-circle . I tried to explain this to him, the celebrant. He nodded compassionately and mentioned his recollection of my being in meetings during that first week, how he had seen me in a lot of “nooners.” But I don’t think he fully understood. How could he?

I had been in a lot of nooners in the prolonged period of mourning. I had never had a loss such as this and went to meetings every chance I could. Often this was twice per day. I went to them on my lunch break. I went to them at night. I went into them sobbing, unable to control it.

Will had been in the military and a considerable amount of time passed between his passing and the military’s returning the body. Or maybe it just seemed that way. In writing this, I thought it was nearly two weeks. In looking through my photos of visiting family and the digital timestamp from the camera, I learned it was 8 days from being informed of his death to the funeral.

Learning of his death stung me with one level of pain. Going to the airport and seeing the flag-draped coffin unveiled another level of pain – – oh, it was so real now. Then seeing him in the coffin for the first time impaled me with pain I’ve never felt. It was heartbreakingly real now and that lingering thought that whispered muffled in the back of my mind … the thought that there was a mistake and it was another sailor who died …….. was now squashed. There was no mistake. It was my baby brother.

It was my baby brother who wore footed pajamas and fell asleep in my lap when he was a toddler. It was my baby brother who knew all the names of dinosaurs – whether common or more obscure, knew every bug. It was my baby brother, the one who loved to sit in a BIG empty box with me and pretend it was a car. He would ask me to drive this cardboard car because he was too young to drive. His destination? Nicaragua. Yes. And he pronounced it like a 2-year old, skipping some vital letters such as the R. He’s the one who grew into a humorous young man who had some sarcastic whispers, some secret jokes, and attempts to withhold a smile – a smile that couldn’t be bitten or hidden more than halfway. Yeah, that bemused half-smile of his. My baby brother.

That pain stabs me in the heart again at random times throughout the year. Sometimes in the fall on a random warm and slightly overcast day. I’ll wonder what it is about that day and I’ll remember it was the weather pattern the last time I saw him. Certainly the pain comes on his birthday. The pain stabbed me when I saw pineapple upside down cake in a glass cooler in a diner where they displayed their desserts; pineapple upside down cake was his favorite. The pain pierces me on Christmas and Thanksgiving. Sometimes on very random days I cry like a tantruming 2-year old because I want to call him NOW. I want to hear his voice NOW. Sometimes I cry when I’m buying a card for someone – anyone – and I meander through the aisle with birthday cards and pass the section that says “Brother.”

Once in a while I smile. I’ll hear a joke that I know he’d appreciate. I’ll be at a family function and I can imagine some things he’d have to say. I’ll see a picture of him and that smile, that amused half-smile and I’ll giggle, knowing what he was thinking. I can only hope there are more of these smiles. I certainly had zero of those the first and most painful year. There seem to be more and more of these as time passes. I don’t miss him less. In fact with each passing day I have more I want to say to him. With each passing day I feel like he’s even farther away. The distance of time is greater than any mile, than any light-year.

Today. Today I heard a man tell his story, a man whose new life started in March 2009. Thank God he found us. Thank God his life got better and better. Thank God he shared his message of experience, strength and hope with me today. Today I went to a meeting where they hand out chips. Two people got up for their 24-hour chips. Maybe this is the very beginning of more St. Patrick’s Day anniversaries for me to attend.

Feeling Like a Newbie Again ………

Today it has been one month, one week, and four days since my last brush with nicotine.  It has been one month, one week, and six days since my last cigarette.  This latter one might have been my quit date, but I found my electronic cigarette in the house. I sucked that thing like a hungry baby with a pacifier.  I held the smoke like an 10th grade stoner, blowing out a whole lotta nothin’.

It reminded me of my last drink.  It was an urge paired with easy access and anonymity.  Anonymity meaning I did not have to emerge from my dungeon and move through the world and risk being seen in a package store (or in this case a convenience store with a 10-spot and asking for a pack of cigarettes).  Yes.  No one had to know.  It was private. It was between me and my fix.

But when people asked how I was doing? I told them. I ‘fessed up.  A co-worker laughed and asked, “Does that [vaping] even count?”

These are the thoughts that sometimes go through my head, justifying bad behavior.

But yes, I feel like a newbie again.  A recurring newbie.  This is not my first stint quitting smoking.  I can’t help but wonder, “Is this IT?”  and “Is this REALLY IT?”

My family has smiled approvingly.  But there’s no air-horns and confetti like the first time.  Or even the second time.  I can’t blame them.  It’s getting to be old hat.  And this one-month+ milestone doesn’t hold a candle to the time I made 7 months or the time I made 19 months.  That 1 year + was my record.

I don’t mind there being no  tickertape parade.  I get a bit of that from my coworkers, and honestly I feel a little embarrassed by it.  My straight posture slouches and I smile sheepishly.  I guess I’m not so sure myself that this “is it.”

My son asked me if this is it.  He has seen me quit before.  He caught me when I was a closet smoker, trying to keep it from him.

Ouch.  Why had I done that? What motivated this – and it’s probably the same with closet drinkers – is that I planned to just quit again. He’d never be the wiser.  It was also fear:  fear of disappointing him, fear of the uncomfortable conversation “why did you start again?”, fear of disapproval, fear of his losing respect for me,  fear of getting comfortable with it once he knew and not wanting to stop ……….

So why did I start again?  I’m reviewing this because I need to know. I need to remember.  This is the same thing that  happens to drinkers before they relapse.

My Nicotine Relapse

My brother died.  He was 24 and it was unexpected.

Did 20 cigarettes daily for the past 3 1/2 years bring him back?  Of course not.    And my relapse with nicotine didn’t coincide that neatly with his death.  The days following his death were painful.  Shock is a pretty good anesthetic, lulling me into comparably blissful states of numbness.  When I’d feel the most acute levels of grief, I would hold on knowing that an island oasis of shock and disbelief was ahead of me.  That was the best I could do.  But after the funeral, reality set in.  And it became more horribly and painfully real in the days leading up to his birthday.  His birthday is the same day as my sister’s.  They’re not twins, just a coincidence.  Buying one card crushed me.  The pain was agonizingly heavy, sitting on my chest like an immovable entity.  I would spontaneously burst into tears.  Perhaps in the grocery store reaching for a red pepper.  Sometimes driving.  There wasn’t always a trigger.  It wasn’t always Free Bird blaring on a radio or seeing an American Flag folded into a triangle in one of those boxes for the surviving family members – but those have done me in as well.

I bought cigarettes.  I asked someone to watch my son while I went for a drive.  I smoked.  It was nauseating and it made me lightheaded, but it was what I thought was best.  I felt no regrets afterward, not even when I chewed gum and sprayed myself with perfume.  I snuck an occasional cigarette nearly every day.  One pack lasted for two weeks.  This was under control.  This was what I always wanted:  to be able to take it or leave it.  This went on for two months. For the first month I wondered if the other shoe would drop.  Into the second month, it never occurred to me that it would.  But it did.  It did.  Suddenly I was a pack-a-day smoker.  And I finally confessed, not because it was the right thing to do.  I confessed because of the sheer inconvenience of covering up 20 cigarettes per day and the dishonesty involved with accounting for that many minutes of my time.

Reading this back, it seems inevitable that I would smoke. I could tell myself, “Who wouldn’t?”

Relapse Mindset:

The days leading up to that fateful drive, that fateful first cigarette, were a lot of unhealthy attitudes about smoking that I didn’t tell anyone about.  My sponsor quit smoking. I certainly had someone to talk to.  Both of my parents quit smoking. I could have told them.  But I didn’t.  And I didn’t because I wanted to smoke.  I didn’t want to be talked out of it.  At work at that time, there were TONS of smokers.  It didn’t bother me before then, but in the days leading up to my first cigarette I wished I could go outside with them. I loved the smell and missed the socializing.     I started giving feigned pouty faces when my coworkers slid on their jackets and said they were heading outside; they laughed and encouraged me not to start up again.  They encouraged me with a wag of a finger and “Don’t you dare.”  I missed the “reset” button when I was having a bad day.  When I had a lot of paperwork and stuff I did not like to do, I missed having something to look forward to at the end – or something to get me started or to get me over the hump in the middle so I could carry on ……… I missed a lot of things.  And when you’re “missing” something, you often start feeling deprived.

I was hyper-focused on what I was missing out on and not what I actually earned.

 

Positive Mindset ?  What Could Have Been……….. No.  What Could Be Now!

I wasn’t thinking about how I could walk and converse without getting winded.  I wasn’t thinking about how my colds no longer lingered, how a nagging cough would nag me for a good month after other people recovered from their colds.  In fact?  At this point I did not get too many colds.

I wasn’t thinking about the sheer expense.   I wasn’t thinking about the slavery, and how I would have to power suck two of them right before going to the movies and sneaking out halfway through the movie to power suck half of one so I could get through the rest of it.  I wasn’t thinking about how I felt as if I had been taken hostage when a staff meeting went over the hour, how my foot would get tapping and my eyes would steal glimpses of the clock.  And OH that craving.  Yes.  The slavery.  Cigarettes controlled my every move.  A car trip required strategically timed stops.  I mentioned the movies?  9 times out of 10, I would prefer to watch DVD’s so that I had a “pause” button and did not feel so trapped.   You’ll notice there isn’t much in my list about cancer risk, heart disease and other things I had a close brush with and now have a much lessened chance of acquiring.  Oh, that was so beyond my imagination. I just couldn’t fathom those things ever happening to me.  I still can’t. I also conveniently forgot about the pressure in the back of one of my eyes that I had when I smoked.  It had been happening for a long while. I never told anyone. I was pretty sure it WAS correlated and didn’t want anyone telling me I had to stop.  Besides.  Maybe it would go away.

Anatomy of a Post-Relapse

And yes, this is a blog about alcoholism.  But this whole ordeal makes me think about my alcoholism, too.  That was slavery.  Relapse is not an act of spontaneity – there is a path leading to it, a path masoned of negative thoughts and false memories.   And there are rationalities such as “I’ll quit again.”  I did that with smoking.  “I’ll quit again.”  ‘Cause it had been so easy, right?  [wink] .  Here we are 3.5 years later.  I’m just getting the gumption to quit again.  I wholly did not WANT to this whole time.

They say when we pick up addictions again, we pick up where we left off.  Well?  That’s not always exactly true and that is what is so insidious about it.  When I started smoking again, I wasn’t immediately out of breath doing everyday things. I didn’t immediately wake up every morning with that gross hacking cough.  I didn’t immediately feel enslaved; I could wait out a movie.  I could even work an entire workday!   And I think that’s sometimes true of alcohol.  It doesn’t always immediately bite us in the ass.

A friend of mine from the rooms confided in me that he relapsed – and this was a few years ago.  He said he was going out to the bar with friends every weekend and that was it. He wasn’t even having very many!  He informed me that this was going on for a few months and I wasn’t seeing him in meetings because he wasn’t an alcoholic anymore.  I suppose I’m sharing it with you because this moderation did not last.  He let me know it didn’t work out.   Coming back after the first sign of trouble wasn’t how it ended for him. He lost a job, a wife, a place to live.  Now he’s back in the rooms.  He has a little bit of time together again and has worked out a new place to live and a new job.   But it was hard.

Now……….

So here I am feeling like a newbie again.  An occasional craving will rumble in like a stark gray storm front.  I practically start to salivate.  I have to remember “this, too, shall pass.”  A sponsee of mine told me that she quit years ago and someone told her that the craving goes away whether you smoke or not. I tell myself that over and over it seems.

I’m using the steps, yes.  I prayed to my Higher Power to remove the compulsion and it worked.  It did, it did!  However, sometimes a switch is flipped when I’m walking on the sidewalk and find myself downwind from a smoker or when I smell it on someone when they come back inside or when I pass an ashtray near a store entrance and smell one smoldering there.   So I have to repeat Step 2.  I have to come to believe that a power greater than myself will restore me to sanity ……… and I pray again with that belief, with that conviction.  And it passes.  It does.

Weight gain ……….. that’s what diet, exercise and step 3 are for.

Hopefully this is “it.”  Hopefully this time I will not only get farther than I had the other times, but hopefully I will never pick up again.

But all that aside:  I’m not smoking today.

 

 

 

10 Years Ago Today…….

Ten years ago today was New Year’s Day 2003.  I woke up in disappointed, discouraged disbelief that I had thrown away two months just a mere 8 hours prior.  I swallowed rum, Vanilla Extract, and  NyQuil with a chaser of Listerine.  I descended on these things like one-woman pack of hyenas on a carcass.

Struggling with sobriety, I went to a first meeting following my relapse.  People said “Hi, how are you?” and I answered.  I spoke slowly and methodically, bracing myself for a look of disappointment, discouragement and disbelief.  I saw none of that.  What I saw was encouragement.  I was embraced not disgraced.  I was encouraged not discouraged.  I was believe in and not disbelieved in.  While I didn’t have “approval,” I didn’t have disapproval.   I was appointed to the potential for a new way of life – not disappointed.  I left there feeling stronger.  It sustained me for a while longer.

By the time the spell started to wear off, by the time the strength had begun to ebb, it was time for another meeting.  Day two.  After that spell had started to wear off, by the time the strength had begun to ebb, it was time for another meeting.  Day three.  Etc.

Ten years ago today I had a one-bedroom apartment, and it felt empty and lonely and brimming with anger.  Today I live in a three-bedroom house with a family and it feels full and lively and overflowing with love.  Ten years ago today I had newly declared bankruptcy.  Today I can pay my bills; it’s a struggle, but today I’m not standing next to a stray dollar on the bar wondering if the bartender will think it’s mine and get me a draught or whether she’ll realize it was her tip from someone else.  Ten years ago today I had shaking hands.  Today I don’t have the hands of a surgeon, but nor do I feel like people are staring at me and seeing how awake and angry my nervous system really was.  Ten years ago today I had little hope for the future.  Today I know that each day keeps getting better and can’t imagine it being better than today.

My dad called me this morning to wish me a happy anniversary – and a happy new year.  I couldn’t believe he remembered.  But like my friend Joe said, “How could he forget?”