Gratitude List – In the Aftermath of Sandy Hook

I know that through the years when I have complained about everyday things, people from the program have told me there is always someone who wishes they had my “problems.”  For every day I wanted to lose weight, there is someone who wishes they were as “fat” as me.   For every bad day on the job, there is someone who really wishes they had a job.  For every day my son annoyed me, there was someone who wished they could be with their son ……. and  so forth.

I reposted a blog the other night, “What Six Looks Like.”  It was eloquent and if you get a chance, please read it.  What an amazing writer.

I can’t possibly touch that.  But have a lot on my mind about it.

That fateful Friday I heard about it at work.  Another school shooting.  A coworker stuck his head in my office door and asked if I had heard.  I shook my head and listened attentively.  He shook his head, ” An elementary school, ” he muttered.  There were no numbers.  No ages.  Another school shooting.

When I got out of work, I turned on the news.  Six-year-old’s.  At that point, they were not sure of the numbers.  They showed parents crying and still shots of kindergartners being led out of the school by police.  One line showed the kids single file, their hands on each others’ shoulders.  It looked like a field trip or a fire drill, just that ordinary.  But that one girl in the middle with the horrified look on her face, the one with her mouth wide open like she was screaming ……..

Then there was a story about a teacher hiding her students in a bathroom and huddling with them.  The teacher said some of them cried and said they just wanted it to be Christmas.  They just wanted to be home.  That tore through me.

I went and picked my son up from school.  It looked so normal.  My heart burst with gratitude.  My heart burst with gratitude that I picked him up uneventfully at the end of the day and it never occurred to me that day to wonder if he was safe or okay or ……alive.   I wanted to kiss my nine-year-old boy, but he would have hissed, “MOM.  You’re EMBARRASSING me.”  Showing restraint, I smiled adoringly at him and smoothed his hair before walking him home.

The news reports continued.  Parents were gathered to be reunited with their children.  The news stated that some lingered half an hour after the last pupils left and finally someone told them, “If you have not been reunited with your child by now it’s already over.”  I cannot imagine hearing those words.

Years ago, I signed the papers to have my beloved cat euthanized.  He became ill very suddenly, very unexpectedly.  He was my cat for more than 10 years.  I signed those dreadful papers and ran out without the cat-carrier.  I heard a lady yell, “Miss?”  I walked faster.  Eyes locked on the door, I hightailed it through the lobby fighting tears. I couldn’t – could NOT – carry that  empty carrier.  THAT was heartbreaking.

But?

It can’t possibly hold a candle to leaving some place without your child.  It can’t possibly hold a candle to hearing that news – and that news delivered so callously!   It can’t possibly compare with hearing the news that my son’s school is being shot up, breaking the sound barrier driving across town, expecting to see him  or her rattled, expecting to give him or her a HUGE hug and take them home and give them a bubble bath and their favorite toy and a hot dinner and ……… How do you go home so abjectly empty-handed?      So horribly empty-hearted?

My son got the biggest hug that night.  The biggest kiss, too.    Many times over.

I was glad there was balled-up, dirty socks on the floor.  I was happy to swipe a sponge over ketchup streaks on the counter.  I was delighted to tell him to pick up his damp towel off the bathroom floor – in a flat and even tone……not the usual frustrated burst of aggravation that comes with saying it a kazillion times.  I was overwhelmed with gratitude looking at his Christmas presents  stashed in my closet and knowing he would be here to open them on Christmas morning.   My anxious glances at my bank statements this month seem so foolish now.

I cuddled him and he tolerated it.

I cried.  I don’t usually cry.

My son said, “But mom?  You cry once a year.”

And here I was crying for the children whose lives came to a screeching halt, crying for the teachers who huddled with children and protected them – the way we hope they will as strongly as we hope they never have to, crying for the parents who have to go home without their child, crying for the town that has to grieve together, crying for the children who made it out and who will never be the same, crying for the adults that died protecting those kids, crying for the gunman and either his severe untreated illness or his blackened soul, crying for the gunman’s family – the family who watched this boy grow up and had more idealistic dreams for him than this,  crying for the parents who had more idealistic dreams for their 6-year-old’s, crying for the parents who wished they had been there to protect them, crying for the grandparents and aunts and uncles and siblings……….. just crying.  I couldn’t stop.

My son asked what was wrong – he didn’t know yet.  I paused, wondering if I ought to tell him.  My snap decision was to tell him the truth, to emphasize how unusual it is, to underscore how safe I believe his school to be ……… and silently remembered how safe everyone thought Sandy Hook to be.  I repeated how safe I believed his school to be.  I was reassuring, sad, but not hysterical.

So my gratitude list for that day and the subsequent days is very long.  I’m grateful for cooking my son dinner even when I don’t feel like it. I’m grateful for balled up dirty socks on the floor, streaks of ketchup on the counter, empty soda cans that I had not given permission to be emptied, damp towels on the bathroom floor …….. and all of the joy I get in exchange for these small irritations.  There are multitudes of people out there that would love to have my aggravations.  Only they’re not aggravations today.  They’re very dear to me.  Very dear indeed.

God Bless you, Newton, CT.  God Bless you.

Watching Karma Come to Fruition and Other Things I Didn’t Expect to Expect

Resentment:  n – the feeling of displeasure or indignation at some act, remark, person, etc., regarded as causing injury or insult.

The word stems from the French word Ressentiment or “to feel again” from prefix “re” and “sentir.”  It is also a Philosophical notion from Nietsche.  According to Wikipedia:  “Ressentiment is a reassignment of the pain that accompanies a sense of one’s own inferiority/failure onto an external scapegoat. The ego creates the illusion of an enemy, a cause that can be “blamed” for one’s own inferiority/failure. Thus, one was thwarted not by a failure in oneself, but rather by an external “evil.””

That being said ………

I had a job that I loved, a job I was good at.  This isn’t just my perception; I received glowing commendation letters from funders following audits and site visits.  Outside agencies and coworkers and clients alike praised me.  They did and they still do.  That’s a fact.

A new manager took over and she “cleaned house.” I was a part of the house-cleaning.

[You know what?  I remember through the years hearing people lose their jobs to “politics” and “house-cleanings,” etc.  In the back of my mind I wondered if there was more to it, if the person who was fired really had some underlying contempt for authority or really wasn’t such a great employee as their self-assessment says…. yeah.  I was a little judgmental.  I put the “mental” in judgmental.  I was positively stunned that this lady could do this to me, that these things really happened and that I had little recourse in our “at will” state of employment.]

Compounding this …. or expediting it, I should say, was the fact that there was a lady who worked there who wanted to move up the ranks and had endeared herself to this new monster manager [birds of a feather….], and reported every little thing to her …..fabricating things if necessary.  She did not just do this to me.  There were others who were suspended and even fired. To protect the agency that does good work for the community (in spite of this), I will not go into too many details.  Besides.  There are tons of good people still standing.

Sponsorship – Thank God:

I kept in close contact with my sponsor throughout this and did EVERYTHING he said.  EVERYTHING.  Even when it was scary.  Even when it was the “right” thing to do and even when that “right” thing to do would make things worse for me.

Oh, and my lawyer, too.  I did everything he said, including keeping any and all written correspondence — even if it didn’t seem relevant.  There were some really unconscionable things going on and I was asked to do some unethical things.  I stayed true to who I was; my sponsor gave me the backbone to do this.  The new manager asked me to misreport some of our data so our census would look fuller.  She may have had a Master’s Degree but she was none too smart …. she made this request via email.  Yep.  Put it in writing.  I added this to the big file I was accumulating and responded to her (via email) just the way the lawyer suggested:  I asked if I should include the clients we report to [insert funding source]_______, the clients we report to _______, and the clients we report to _____ and asked her how I should proceed so that “I do this the way you want me to.”  This would let her come to the conclusion that it was double-dipping and it made me look like I was willing to do what she said …… but not double-dip.

Fired:

I guess if you ask too many questions then this is considered “insubordination.”  This is what they told me that last day in the main office.  The manager was rabid, spitting the allegations with foaming-mouthed contempt.  She really appeared to hate me.

The HR lady sat with her arms folded, eyes fixed on the table, her long hair obscuring her face. I kept looking at her in disbelief.  I wanted eye-contact. I wanted her to look at me.  But she didn’t.  Not directly.  I couldn’t be mad at her.  She clearly looked like she wanted the world to swallow her.

So I left.  I went home, rattled. I called my boyfriend and told him. I was trembling.  I paced.  I turned on the computer. I paced.  I checked the online classifieds.  I couldn’t read. I paced.  A single mom with no income.  How was I going to take care of my son?  There are Food Stamps, yes …… I paced.  I had money in savings. I could pay three month’s worth of rent.  I might need to tap my mother for help.  Would I even get Unemployment if I was fired?  Finally ….after an hour of this outrageousness, I prayed.  I knelt and prayed and prayed with all of my might.  I prayed with tight hands and clenched teeth.  I prayed and surrendered — fully surrendered.  I replayed the meeting in my head and should have said …. no.  No.  I prayed. It’s over.  No more “should haves.”  I’m powerless over the past. I prayed.  A wave of calm washed over me and I felt totally bathed in a sense of “EVERYTHING will be okay.  Everything.”

Being rattled came and went.  But I was adrift on this wave of calm.  I kept referring to it.  It was powerful.

Unemployment:

Staying home and looking for a job is hard work — not physically, of course.  Just mentally & emotionally.  It’s also unfulfilling work.  I sent my resume to one agency and they promptly wrote back:  “we need this in a PDF format. ”  Nothing else.  No encouragement.

The lady at the Unemployment office was outraged by what happened.  She shook her head and kept saying “Really?” in an incredulous voice.  She filled out the paperwork for me and told me to call in my hours every week. I did. And?  The agency  I had worked for appeared to be fighting my Unemployment.

When the state called and asked questions I told the man with the Boston accent, “this is what happened:  ___________, and I have an email …. shall I fax it to you?”  He said yes to all of these instances and offers to fax him the documentation I had collected.  I faxed him a 16-page bundle of documents.  My Unemployment was direct-deposited the following day, retroactive after nearly 1 month.

Where is our cast of characters NOW?

Meanwhile?  That lady who wished to climb the ranks without a college education, without doing anything remarkable to earn it (except lie and be malicious) got my job.

I won’t say too much about the job or where it is…… after 1.5 years …… because I don’t want to hurt the agency which seems like a seedling in the thawing  ice trying to grow back to its once beautiful self.    Really, they appear to have righted some wrongs.

The program manager lost her job (though she got a pretty little cushy layoff), and the Executive Director of the whole agency lost his.  He received a nice column in the paper interwoven with nostalgia for his decade-plus of service.  But I found out he was fired…… for misappropriation of funds.  I’m sure that nice column in the paper will get him a nice job elsewhere with little more than a handshake and a smile.

Even though they left with halos in the public eye and I had this scarlet letter …… this big red F for Fired ……. I was able to move on emotionally.  I was just genuinely happy that their corrupt and unethical  influence was gone, that the clients I loved and the staff that was like family were now “safe.”

That lady?  The one who made crazy allegations and got away with it and got my job?   She kept working there.   That drove me crazy.  On many job applications there is small print stating that lying on an application is grounds for dismissal (or for not being hired in the first place).  What she did to me (and to others) was tantamount to lying on a job application …… except worse because it hurt others and was not simply an act of self-promotion.  I seethed.  Oh, I seethed.

Resentment:

I struggled with a resentment.  I would pray it away and would do well for months and then someone would mention her, or I would see her name in an email CC’ed among many, or I would see someone who looked like her, or someone would mention the work-site in question …….. and there I’d go again.  I would fantasize about getting her fired.  I’d fantasize of enormous hardships in her life. I’d fantasize about all sorts of things, and it would always end with me encountering her somewhere and giving her a big Cheshire-cat grin except more smug, my arms folded, nostrils flaring, and my foot tapping.

Then it would occur to me to pray again …….. but it was too fun living in this maniacal fantasy world where I telepathically tortured her.  When I realized its impact on my serenity – and reminded myself that resentments are like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die — I would pray for her.  I would pray for God’s will for her, accepting whatever that will was.  Maybe she WOULD get fired (in God’s time, not mine).  Maybe she would win the lottery and move to Fiji.  Whatever. I accepted it all.  Then I’d be back on the beam.  Then back off of it.  Then back on it.  It was nauseating.  All this back and forth nearly drove me to Dramamine.

One week ago I spoke to my sponsor about it again.  He acknowledged that what happened really was not fair.  When it first happened he told me:  “expecting the world to treat you fairly just because you’re doing the right things is like expecting a bull not to charge you because you’re vegetarian.”  He’s right.  He asked if I can make the distinction between forgiving and forgetting , how this is something I probably can’t – and shouldn’t – forget.  I let him know that I know the difference.  This is more than remembering.  He recommended a step 4 on it, like in the Big Book.  So I started my flow chart of seething.

Her actions affected my sense of security [Fear: might this happen again?….. who knew that a lady doing a good job could get fired in an incredibly hostile way?]    Her actions affected my pride [Fear:  I am not always in control, good , bad or indifferent]……  my self-esteem [Fear: can’t I take care of myself and prevent things such as this?]…. Her actions affected my …… perfectionism! [Fear:  I now have this termination on my resume].

But all in all?  It was a control issue.  She ultimately “won” and had the upper hand and THAT is what was killing me.  Was I accepting that maybe this was God’s will?  No.  Was I accepting that maybe she …. in all her inglorious evil and sicknesses …. went AGAINST God’s will?  And that maybe in His infinite wisdom He knew she would do that and put me in her path for a reason?  No.

My conversation started with my sponsor on Friday. I did work on it over the weekend.

Monday? I got the call I have fantasized about this entire time.  She was fired.

A triumphant smile crept across my face.  I felt relieved.  “Yesssss,” I whispered.   I felt like the universe had somehow been restored.  I felt a renewed belief in humanity, that the agency I mentioned was done being complicit in bullshit.

The feeling ebbed as quickly as it had arrived.  I felt sorry for her.  No. I REALLY did.

It’s a couple of weeks before Christmas and this lady has a child.   Did that child make bad decisions or any other thing to deserve this?  Nope.  And that’s where my program is weak and can have holes punched in it:  children.  I have to remember God has a plan for children, too.

I felt sorry that she hadn’t learned anything, that she hadn’t “risen to the occasion” and done good work there.  The allegations against her are pretty serious and I’d even daresay scandalous.  I felt sad that the clients I loved so much were exposed to someone so unethical, cruel and perhaps even dangerous.  I felt sad …….. flooded with sadness.  That feeling has not gone away.

What I Wish I Had Done Differently:

* I wish I had been able to continue to look on the bright side.  *

1.  Did I REALLY wish to still be there when the upper management was taken down?  To still be there I would have had to have participated.  Is that who I wanted to be?

2.  My termination was a catalyst to my life improving.  I work for a GREAT agency now.  The governor recognized them a couple of years ago as being among the top ten list of “best companies” to work for in the state.  I was hired for 30 hours/week [not what I wanted, but the pay is better than Unemployment!] and my take-home pay is similar to what it was at that other place.  Working 30 hours permitted me to finish my education.  I needed to do an internship and I did it with this agency.  I learned more there than I might have at other places.

3.  Did I REALLY wish to still be there today?  I would have worked alongside this woman for the past 1.5 years and witnessed her in heartbreaking action?  No.

4.  Last but not least:  God had a plan for me.  I learned MANY lessons from this.  Would I trade that back?  No.  No.  No.

* I wish my forgiveness came before her being fired.  Was there really a need for “justice” to have closure or was I working toward closure anyway?  I don’t know.  I do know that I’ve wrestled with this for 1 1/2 years and wish I dealt with it sooner, using things I had already learned.  * 

In the Big Book it says in Chapter 5/Step 4:

“This was our course: We realized that the people who wronged us were perhaps spiritually sick. Though we did not like their symptoms and the way these disturbed us, they, like ourselves, were sick too. We asked God to help us show them the same tolerance, pity, and patience that we would cheerfully grant a sick friend. When a person offended we said to ourselves, ‘This is a sick man. How can I be helpful to him? God save me from being angry. Thy will be done.’

“We avoid retaliation or argument. We wouldn’t treat sick people that way. If we do, we destroy our chance of being helpful. We cannot be helpful to all people, but at least God will show us how to take a kindly and tolerant view of each and every one.”

I never found that caliber of sustained tolerance for her.  On my best day, I would feel that tolerance for a few minutes.

So here I am, examining where I went wrong and how I can do better (beginning with remembering that I’m a human being with human failings).  Hopefully this never happens again!  I’m praying for knowledge of God’s will for me and the power to carry it out.   Sometimes if I don’t “get” the lesson, it is repeated.  Hopefully I’ll “get it.”

All The Lonely People …..

On “Thanksgiving Eve” I felt pretty sick.  I needed my meds from the pharmacy and opted for drive-thru service since wading through the crowds at CVS was something I wasn’t up to.

A white car idled at the window in front of me and I pushed around the debris in my purse to get my wallet.  I could hear the muffled lady’s voice yakking with the Pharmacy Tech at the window.  I thumbed through my wallet and pulled out some cash and my CVS Care Card.  Thunder bellowed through my bowels.  I wanted to get home to the bathroom, to the safety and certainty of being NEAR a bathroom.  The white car continued to idle at the window.  The lady accepted the clipboard from the Pharmacy Tech, left her signature on the appropriate line, and handed it back.  My stomach grumbled menacingly.   The staff handed her the blue & white bags.  Happy this transaction was over, I waited for the car to pull forward.  It didn’t.

I could see the driver’s profile smiling at the man in the window.  Through the low music of my radio and over the hum of my car’s idling engine, I could hear the lady’s words.  I picked up on bits such as “big plans tomorrow?” and “I hope you’re not working.”  She tilted her head to the side and smiled, telling the man about a pie she plans to bake.  My stomach, as if alarmed by this, belched inside and sputtered.  Glaring at the white car ahead of me, I was dreaming of ramming her back bumper.  I was telepathically screaming “GO!  LEAVE!  BE GONE!!!”

A male voice murmured from the window and the lady smiled and nodded.  Her arm slipped through her open window and hugged the car door as she leaned toward him, listening and smiling.  My stomach lurched inside and I clutched it, promising if it behaved it could unload in just a few minutes.  Just a few minutes.

The banter continued.  A car pulled up behind me.  I glanced at the clock.   I had been sitting here for nearly ten minutes.

“…. yeah, pecan,” she smiled.

She talked about her meds.  It wasn’t a question about how to take them or anything having to do with the transaction. It was about the medication she had been taking before and how it made her tired.  I was getting tired.  I thought about pulling to the front and waddling through the mob I imagined inside, judging by the cars parked out front.  It just wasn’t worth it to sit here and be aggravated.  But then I was afraid of the potential for diarrhea.  I was afraid I would be trapped in a longer line.  This lady HAD to be done.  Surely deliverance was on the horizon.   Surely she had glanced in her side-view mirror at some point and saw people were waiting.

Mentally I was screaming, “Can’t you see you’re not the only f**kin’ person who needs their medications before Thanksgiving?”

Nodding and smiling, her head bobbing like a fishing lure that caught something big, she continued babbling about pies and expired medications and now her bunion .

I closed my eyes for a second and prayed for her.  I could almost hear my sponsor’s voice advising it.  I had my cell phone.  Maybe I ought to call someone from the program.   My mind racing, I mumbled the Serenity Prayer and mentally took inventory of ……. the meds I had at home.  Maybe this could wait til Friday.  But I couldn’t be sure and some of them were for my son.  He was going out of town.

I opened my eyes.  White car still sitting there.  Driver still yapping.  My fingers tightened around my steering wheel.  I started silently judging her:  selfish, self-absorbed, oblivious, stupid, chatterbox…….. all these angry, ugly words spewed in rapidfire grunts.

I was dimly aware of the radio announcer announcing what had been and what was to come:  Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles.  The music blended in and the announcer faded out.

“Ahhh, look at all the lonely people.  Ahhh, look at all the lonely people……..”

Just then?  I realized I was possibly looking at all the lonely people.  Certainly there was one in the white car.  Possibly one in the CVS window.   Perhaps, on this Thanksgiving Eve, this would be this lady’s last interaction until the holiday was over.  Maybe there would be a hasty visit from a grown child who was eating a small turkey breast with her out of obligation and little more.  Perhaps she has a spouse with Alzheimer’s and being with him and his dim recollections is worse than being alone.   Maybe she was just lonely.

And I sat there.  My grasp on the wheel loosened and I listened to the song.  My stomach rumbled periodically and I admonished it to shut up.

On Thanksgiving Eve and Thanksgiving Day, I stayed home with my thundering stomach while my family went out and enjoyed a big feast. I knew they would be back. I knew they were sorry I wasn’t there — that I was wanted somewhere.  I was thankful for this, for my house being a home, that I have Chicken & Rice Soup for the tum’, and …….. that I could hear my Higher Power speaking to me through the radio.  My hastily mumbled prayer had been answered.   I was also thankful for that patient and kind Pharmacy Tech whose name tag read “Josh” for doing more than dispensing meds to this lady and making her evening a little happier and meaningful while the cars piled up behind her.  He had all the time in the world.

 

Acceptance

One thing I have learned on this journey is acceptance.  I’m not perfect and sometimes I continue to fight things in my head, sometimes I struggle with resentment.  But for the most part, I’ve come a long way.

I think “acceptance” is a loaded word and means many things to many people — and feel free to comment and add what it means to you so this will be more well-rounded.  In the beginning, I struggled with the notion that it may equate passivity.  I thought people in AA with their acceptance had “given up.”  I thought their turning the other cheek meant letting people walk all over them.  They were suckers.

I know now that it means accepting conditions as they ARE today.   It means taking action and sticking up for ourselves and “turning over” the outcomes.  It may mean believing in God’s justice instead of pursuing street justice.

One of the biggest things I struggled with (in terms of acceptance) was my health and it takes ongoing vigilance to stay on top of it.  In 2008 I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease (after many months) and if the topic interests you for any reason, I keep a blog called Bloody Lymey (www.bloodylymey.wordpress.com)  It was a long journey to getting diagnosed and other sicknesses were tossed out at me.  Lupus.  Fibromyalgia.  MS.  Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Chronic Fatigue.  Certain types of anemia and other vitamin deficiencies. It seemed endless.  By the time I saw a specialist for Lyme, she thought I had had it for 2-3 years.

In 2008, I was five years sober.  I had worked the steps and continued working the steps and had a sponsor who I had been working with for 3 years.  I had a pretty solid foundation.  Thank GOD.  But even with a “program” and even with some knowledge of how to cope and resources to use, I still fought it in my head.  Before being diagnosed, I had a doctor who said I was depressed — and was willing to leave it at that.   If I was PASSIVE I would have shrugged and said “OK.”  But I accepted the very fact that he SAID that.  I accepted the fact that he gave me all he had.  I accepted the fact that perhaps he wasn’t such a go-getting type doctor and that this is how he IS.  But I don’t want a doctor like that.

I didn’t fight it in my head or sit around seething and plotting revenge (which is the opposite of acceptance).  Wait.   Sometimes I did.  Sometimes I did.  Ha ha.  But I realized it was using up my energy that could be directed toward something more productive. I ACCEPTED it but I took appropriate action: I got a new doctor.

In the two months it took to find the right doctor (and after some idiot wanted to give me ATIVAN for the pain!!!  But that’s another story), I had to accept where I was today.  That was tough.   I was fairly athletic, always hiking, always on the move, always playing with my young son.  I had to accept my limitations for the day. If I was passive, I would not have pursued adequate medical care. I would have laid down and applied for SSI, committed to sleeping and being in pain the rest of my natural born days.

It’s a good thing I didn’t do that.  Whatever was wrong with me would suffocate me at night and I would wake up not breathing. It was terrifying and I would swallow air, trying to survive.  It made my heart do peculiar things — murmur, palpitate, race, punch my rib cage, flutter …….   I talked to my son’s grandparents.  I talked to them about “what if.”  I made a video for my son to watch when he grew up “in case.”  And that was hard to do, but I felt it was necessary.

I had to accept the fact that when my then four year old asked to go somewhere I had to say “Not today.”  Remembering the invigoration following a hike in the woods or climbing a mountain, I had to accept that I couldn’t do that today.   Being on the move and out doing things was a part of my identity, a part of my soul.  It seemed impossible to believe I couldn’t do those things.  Sometimes I made myself keep moving.  One time I brought my son to the bike trail in another town to go for a ride.  I struggled, bit my lip and “toughed it out.”  The muscle fatigue got so severe that steering my car back to our town was tapping the last of my resources. I tried not to cry, unsure if I could get us all the way home.   Little by little, instances such as this taught me not to rock the boat.

Finally I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease and there was hope. I was being treated.  The specialist I was referred to thought that, based on the progression of the disease, that I had had it for 2-3 years.  Finishing the course of Doxycycline, I still had all the symptoms except the respiratory and heart ones — which had been the most alarming.

It’s four years and one month since my diagnosis and I’m exhausted today.  My knees and hands are stiff.  I slept for 3 hours this afternoon.  I have labs next month and see a rheumatologist in August.  My treatments have changed over the years and some things have worked for a while.  I had a 10-month remission at one point.  This hasn’t been constant and that’s the most insidious part of it, it’s the part that really makes me struggle with the acceptance.  I get to a point and think “Whew!  It’s OVER.”  And then WHAM!   It’s like having an abusive husband that I can never leave.  He’ll woo me, he’ll make up with me.  It’s all good.  Then the vicious cycle comes full circle and it starts again and I’m tortured from within.   Does feeling sorry for myself help this?  No.  Not at all.  My sponsor has beaten my ass off the pity pot.

When I planned my day today, I didn’t plan to trudge around feeling exhausted and unmotivated.  I didn’t plan to sleep the afternoon away.  But I shifted gears.  “I can’t control the wind, but I can adjust my sails.”  I accept my limitations just for today – not that I can do this every minute of every day, but it’s far easier than it used to be and acceptance is the rule and not the exception anymore.  I did what I could to nurture myself and to meet my needs for the day.  My soul wanted to go for a hike.  My soul wanted to clean part of the house to make it a better place for my family.  My soul wanted to scan more old pictures for a dear relative who doesn’t have many pictures of his mom.  But my body needed other things.  And I know if I just make myself do what I planned then I may feel like this for the rest of the week.  Doing the next right thing today will always increase the chances that tomorrow will be better— no matter what.

If I was passive, if I was taking this “laying down,” I would not see a rheumatologist in August and would not bother with the labs.  I would just lay here and say “this is okay.  Someone will take care of me.”  I’m not mousy.  But laying here and feeling angry that I couldn’t do what I want isn’t going to make today any better.  Laying around here and thinking about how many years I’ve dealt with this and how many more may be yet to come is NOT keeping it “in the day.” It will make it more unbearable – particularly if I dwell on it.

Today I have a relationship with God and know that whatever is wrong with me today serves a purpose. In hindsight I have learned so many things because of Lyme Disease.  I’ve learned a new caliber of empathy.  Today I help people with disabilities gain employment — I know more about limitations and have become an adept negotiator for reasonable accommodations, since I know how it feels.  When I have a good day, I appreciate it in the truest and greatest sense of the word — and I used to just take it for granted and sometimes even felt entitled to it.  When I’m okay, I really feel more alive than ever.  I don’t procrastinate as much.  I don’t put off mowing the lawn today because I don’t know if I’ll be up to it tomorrow. I no longer tell my son “some day we’ll go to ________” [insert name of cool place].  I might have to tell him we’ll do it when I’m feeling better, but we always do it.  Some Sundays I wake up feeling better than ever and we hit an amusement park.

My faith in God fuels my feeling of acceptance.  This fatigue and creakiness?  God gave it to me for a reason.  Maybe I need to slow down.  Maybe it’s a test.  Maybe it kept me home and prevented me from being in a fatal accident.  Maybe it meant for me to reflect on this some more today.   Maybe I’m not even ever meant to know.

Humility, too, fuels acceptance and a lot of my humility is based on my faith in God and knowing I’m not his right-hand man.  I’m not entitled to health.  God doesn’t have to do me any favors. He knows what’s best for me – better than I do – And what about “why me?”  Well?   Why NOT me?  Why should someone else have to go through this?  And the end of the full Serenity Prayer is :   “living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, and accepting hardship as the pathway to peace.”

Humility helps me when my pride is eating away at me when I’m gimpy or struggling up the stairs with people accumulating behind me.  I’m not perfect.  I’m not untouchable.  I don’t need to be the tough guy.  But I’m not perfect and I’m not always on the proverbial beam.  Sometimes it does hurt my pride and sometimes I do feel self-conscious.  Like at the end of an AA meeting, I try to be considerate of other people and let the crowd gravitate to the stairs so I can lag behind and not inconvenience anyone.

All of this takes practice.  Acceptance is earned, not granted.

Feel free to comment with your thoughts on acceptance — how it works for you, how you attain it, anything at all.

Making [Inner] Peace with a Rapist

I went to my AA meeting.  It was generally held in the “gymnasium” of the church.  It was a large room with a stage and a floor painted like a basketball court, the smell of coffee and the sounds of metal chairs in the room with friendly chatter and visuals of familiar faces.  Instead, it was held downstairs.  They were doing maintenance things in the bigger room.

The room downstairs was a small brick cave, the bricks painted lavender with visible brush strokes.   I crammed into the crowded room and sat in the middle seat of a middle row, politely stepping over people and saying my “hellos.”

The meeting promptly commenced and the chairperson read the reading of the day. I have no recollection of what reading it was.  It would pull this story together if it was based on forgiveness or some other something …. but I cannot lie. I don’t remember.  The format lends itself to going around the room, “You may pass if you wish.”

The second person to share was a strawberry blonde in the front row.  “Hi, I’m ________ and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi ________!” Everyone merrily answered in unison.

He started to share and the voice was familiar. I knew the name.  He turned his head and there was the profile.  The guy looked like Keifer Sutherland.  (See my Gateway Drug Blog).   It was the man who raped me nearly twenty years prior.  All the hatred I had ordinarily felt was displaced by terror.  It was illogical, and I knew that.  But there was no telling that to the adrenaline that was churning through my veins, to my nauseated stomach, to my shaking quaking head and hands.  I trembled and was afraid to stay, afraid to leave.  The thought of pushing past this crowd of chairs and quiet alcoholics was too intimidating.  I was also afraid I would piss myself – or in some way lose control.  I shook and stared and didn’t hear a word he said.

“….and with that I’ll pass,”  he smiled, turning and looking back at those of us in rows behind him.

“Thanks, ____________” the room merrily answered.

I shook.  When it came my turn, I uttered “pass.”  I didn’t want to call attention to myself. I didn’t want to say my name. I wanted to hide.  I wanted to call my sponsor, but I couldn’t.  My mouth was watering like I was going to puke.

Struggling for some semblance of mental clarity, I finally heard my sponsor’s voice.  He’s a guy – and I know it’s unconventional – and he’s old enough to be my father. His voice itself is quite fatherly, very matter of fact and has a warmth about it as well as a sternness.  How does he do that?  I could hear him talking to me.

“This isn’t YOUR meeting.  The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking and you know how sick he is.  Maybe he never would have done that if he didn’t have a problem.  He needs help just like you.  Let it go. It’s over.  You’re safe.”

And you know?  When I called him later and told him about it, he did pretty much tell me it isn’t MY meeting and that he’s sick and needs help like I do.  I laughed.  I knew he’d say that.

But hearing his voice in that meeting gave me peace.  The adrenal glands eased up and the trembling subsided.  During the break, I felt emotionally hungover and there weren’t many women there that night to talk to.  I did grab one and talked to her.  She huffed about it and how bad that sucked. I didn’t tell her which one it was, but he was really the only guy there that wasn’t a regular ….

Somehow, I kept replaying my sponsor’s message over and over.  By the end of the meeting I felt peace.  It was okay that he was there.  It honest to God was. I can’t believe it myself.  It was genuinely a miracle, this change of heart I had in that meeting.  I had thought that during my 4th and 5th steps that I had “gotten over it.”  Obviously seeing him was a whole other thing – and being crammed into a small room with him with 20 more people than a fire marshal would dig …. that was another matter entirely.

The following week, I chose not to go to that meeting.  I made the decision the night before.  Just wasn’t going to happen!   The meetings I had gone to in between – I entered those rooms with cautionary glances.    But I prayed.  OH I prayed like only the desperate can.  And I DID go to that meeting.  I wish I could say he became a regular and we made our amends, but I never saw him again.  That was three years ago.    But it wasn’t a coincidence, I’m sure.  And I’m at peace.  Absolute peace with it.

Alcoholic’s Anonymous ……

Do I dare write about A.A.?  Sure.

In keeping with their traditions, I am going to remain anonymous.  I do not consider myself to be a spokesperson of A.A. I am not their poster-child. I am just a cog in the wheel.  But it’s hard to talk about my alcoholism without addressing my means of recovery.  So as long as we understand each other, I should proceed.

The life I have today is beautiful.  I never imagined I would have such a beautiful family, such a rewarding career, such love, such contentment …. I can sit in the room with myself and be okay. My life includes spirituality.  I put down the drink a kicking and screaming atheist, so it’s a miracle that my heart has turned.

The life I have today could only be possible with A.A.

I know there are other means of quitting drinking.  Personally, I have met people who just …. stopped.  They maintain a healthy respect for their addiction and they stay sober for eons.  Trust me. It’s possible.  But it didn’t work for me. I needed support.

In AA, I was taught that drinking was not the problem; it was the “solution” and the “solution” stopped working for the problem which was me.  This is where the twelve steps come in.  This is what I needed and this is why I couldn’t do it alone.

Alcoholic’s Anonymous is confusing.  They have meetings.  They have people “sharing” at these meetings.  It appears to be a form of group therapy.  Yes.  A support group.  It IS that, but it is a 12-step program.  For a 12-step program to work, one must work the program.

Initially, I got the support – and I still do.  Here are the suggestions they offered me that I took them up on (and they say A.A. is “suggestions only”):

1.  I have a sponsor

2.  I have a home group

3.  I attend a step meeting

4.  I have a network

5.  I go to meetings

6.  I work the steps

7.  I sponsor people

8.  I pray – “please” in the morning,”thank you” at night

 

This works for me.  A little bit at a time, I have “recovered.”  I don’t like the term “recovered,” because it implies I became the person I was before.  “Recovering” something means to find something that was lost or to restore something to what it once was ….The person I was before was a bitter and angry person who detested herself.  That is not who I am today.  Thank God.

What I Hated About A.A.: 

1.  PRAYER

2.  Higher Power / God

3.  Gratitude (“What the hell is there to be grateful for???”, I mentally screamed whenever someone used the word “grateful.”)

4.  Seems like a CULT (I really thought this, but let me assure you no one asked me to stay away from my family, no one made me do anything I didn’t want to do, and as for brainwashing?  Well, I do think differently today and I assure you it’s an improvement.  They pass a basket and most people throw in a buck.  If you don’t have it?  No judgment.  It’s not some scheme – the money goes to renting the church basements, buying coffee & styrofoam cups, and to A.A. services such as books for newcomers, etc. )

5.  It seemed like a cliche of itself

6.  People helping me!!!  (I wanted to know everything already, I wanted to be independent and not need people!!!  Blehhhh!!!!)

What I Love About A.A.: 

1.  Faith

2.  Friends/Socializing – it’s like what I thought I used to have in the bars, but didn’t really.  If I was upset, the best any of them would do was buy me a shot and secretly wish I’d shut up because I was being a buzz kill.  In AA?  People LISTEN and support!  I can’t get over it.  And if you happen to get to know people and mention that you’re moving?  There are scads of people there.  It’s amazing.

3.  Serenity

4.  Gratitude (gag!!!  I can’t believe I’ve been converted!)

5.  The life skills they gave me (I did not know how to be assertive, how to take care of myself, how to have relationships with other people …. countless things)

6.  A peaceful way of life (the chaos I used to experience constantly is gone.  I can relax today.)

7.  Learning how to have fun without alcohol – and it’s possible!

8.  The steps

9.  My sponsor who is like a new father to me

10.  Getting to know a new me and loving her

 

I’m just feeling like I ought to talk about my own personal experience with it because it’s what helped, but I want to make it clear that I’m not going to push it down anyone’s throat and I’m not considering myself their spokesperson.  I love it and felt like I owed it some more mention.