so. yeah. i don’t have a regular blog post tonight. but i do have some poetry. i know … *groan*.

but this? this is important to me. and long. and to any of you who have suffered abuse by the hand of someone who says “i love you”

you’ll get this.

addiction often lends itself to allowing abuse into our lives … physical, verbal, or otherwise.

because if we are hurting ourselves it would stand to reason that we allow the same from others.

this is heartfelt and sincere. and shook me to the core.

thanks for reading… me.

he told me how worthless i am

and that i am useless yet at the same time he loves me

I dont know how to feel except miserable

i know the great guy he is and i will never give up one him…

even when he tries to push me away …thats love.

( as seen on a facebook status. )

I.

as a woman who has lived

giving always to another

bothered by naught

taught to take it well

swelling lips broken

token affection

injected just when necessary

glaring contradictory

story of a victim’s life

strife in the “yeah but”

strutting when he was kind

blinded by half truths

moot points of misery

fantasy of “someday

baby you’ll see

truly what you’ve got”

sotted by lies

crying when truth

vermouth enriched

bitching was normal

hormonal blamed for it all

stalling into the cock … pit

slit of truth denied

spied on happy in others

smothering personal worth

dirge of an awareness song

long gone was my own opinion

onion tears from HIS words

disturbed me never

clever as I was … I was blind

denied kindness for so long

strong woman gone

alone was better than

standing entrenched in hatred

putrid salve masked as love

II.

gloves off now girl

pearl of wisdom for your necklace

glass is all the way empty

see true love never degrades

blades of pain are borne from emotion

devotion makes it so

no man who loves you will say

baby you’re worthless but…

slut. whore. bitch. I love you anyway?

gray is NOT the new fashion

attention pay please to what I am saying

braying asses are just a distraction

faction of the problem displayed

any way you look at it

sitting or standing or bent over in pain

shame is never love.

dove of unselfish kindness both ways

today you better LEARN your name

games are for babies

maybe you’ve not heard

words CAN hurt like whips

lips bloodied with spittle

whittling away at your heart

start thinking two way street here

tears should derive from emotion

stolen never from your grace

face it now or find more misery

blistering truth hurts for a moment

token pain of growing up

buttercup if you’re so worried about him

slim chance you’ll find true romance

dance is made for TWO partners

starting and stopping in their embrace

facing the world the same way

not you looking always at him … and him looking away

III.

trust me I’ve known the difference

given a chance at true love’s bliss

missed that chance too

blue filled scars from my past pain

drained the life out of the only real I’ve known

owning it makes it hurt no less

happenstance of a love gone

strong man pushed away from scars

barring my happy ending

sending him away because victim … used to be my name.

pain is there but also gladness

sadness for love’s loss but

trust me when I say in truth

forsooth I’ll not choose to be where you are again.

and the next time true love knocks on my door

sore from running I might just stick scars or not

stopping in my tracks because I now … know the difference.

complete-ness starts with me.

* you can find more of my actualized poetry at Sassifiable Poetry.  If you’re into that sorta thing.

How amazing is it to be able to fly? – first rhetorical question.

My goodness we are so small. – first philosophical ideation.

Yes. I am childlike. Yes, I like that about me.  Yes, I’m flying to see my guy and am excited as a pig in pudding to be on a plane.  Of course experience drives me so I started tapping at my trusty keyboard.  As I glanced out of the window it was if I was seeing the enormity of the world all over again.  Putting on a bird’s eye view, so to speak.

We make ourselves small.  Of course we have to focus on our daily lives; the small stuff is important. But how often do we think about ourselves as a “global community”? That we are part of something bigger? That Wal Mart shopping or what trashy outfit the recently divorced neighbor lady is wearing … might not be that important.

How often do we ponder the big things in life? Kindness. Courage. Acceptance. Connections. Freedom. Have versus have not. Where is our mind set? Why are we here? What’s the point? I have no idea. But as I fly high above the world, it feels big.

I talk to the flight attendant who is sweet as pie. She is kind and smiling and I like that. We look out the window at the sun over the clouds. How easy it can be to connect with others. Truth be told I’d never had that before recovery.

So wrapped up in the selfishness of my pathetic cynicism all I cared about was what you could do for … me. Even in early recovery. It does take a while for our eyes to open yes? Think newborn kitties … only concerned with their next meal.

Seeing the bigger picture comes with recovery maturity. Odd phrase I know … but there are phases of growth in the recovery process. When we begin to see ourselves as part of our recovery family it is miraculous. How about growing to the point where we see all of humanity as our family… amazing thought.

Anyway, I’m on vacation. Heading for the beach this morning … which is a whole other “huge” experience. I suppose (I KNOW) my HP talks to me through nature. (to the point of tears hence I had to write this) Hard to deny seeing that there are things greater than me when getting a bird’s eye view.  Absolutely breathtaking.

“Yeah my neighbor is one of them there drunks in that triple A thing. Always talkin’ bout them meetings and all that bunk. Man he doesn’t need them stupid brain washers.  All he needs is to grow a set. Like me. I drink all the time but I ‘CONTROL’ it.  He’s a pansy.”

Okay there’s lots to comment on here. And/or make fun of. But I shan’t. I also won’t tell you what I said in response. Children could be present. *eye roll*

Nothing burns my proverbial butt more than when I hear someone say that addiction is a “lack of will power”. WHAT??? Seriously? If people only knew how much will power it takes to drink and drug and lie and steal and cheat and THEN have your head convince you that nothing is wrong??? The sheer force of will it takes to continue to scheme and manipulate to maintain the ability to use in the face of life continuing to bitch slap us?

I mean really. If were a matter of a will power match up? I’d choose one of us dope fiends and drunks over a normie anyday. Seriously.  How much pain can one person withstand?  I’d be fingers bent backwards, knuckles screaming in pain, with someone standing on my neck before I’d EVER cry Uncle.  True dat.

I so wish it were will power instead of a disease.  It’d be so much easier to simply “WILL” away my physiological differences, my liver enzymes, brain chemistry, my ability for tolerance (needing more to produce the same effect).  Hell yes I’ll just pick myself up by my bootstraps and just “QUIT IT”.

Kinda takes the wind out of the 12 step sails yes? The “we are physically and mentally different than our fellows” the whole “allergy to alcohol” slant.

Hell all the doctors in the world are wrong. Addiction is simply a matter of a bad upbringing.  (Tell my mother that one and she’ll smack ya) Or other problems in childhood.  Weak character.  The American Medical Association is a bunch of quacks. As well as the rest of the world’s medical and scientific community.

power ... we got it ... aka HP

WHY??? Because Henry Hillbilly says it’s simply a matter of willpower.  Perhaps it’s not a matter of WILL power … but a different kind of power that’s the issue.  I’d say as a group we’re a pretty ‘willful’ bunch. That got us no where. A power greater (whatever that might mean to you) was missing. So says the Big Book so says my using career.  Right. Power.

GAH!!! I got your will power right here bub. Tell an addict/alcoholic to DO something? See how quick they buck.  Even to the point of self destruction.  Hell most would even agree with ya.

Best line ever heard at a meeting on this subject.

“I used to say that I’d rather be a bad person than a sick alcoholic. If I’m EVIL or BAD … there’s no hope for that. I’m sunk. If I’m SICK … there is a TREATMENT. A daily reprieve based on the maintenance of my spiritual condition.  There is hope.”

I like that. Force of will. We have it. Always have. Just now? We use it for the healthy. Use to seek like minded folks. Use it to seek a power greater than ourselves. Use it … to seek recovery. May the force be with you. Luke… I am your father. Oh hell. Totally wrong quote.

Disclaimer: No hillbillies were harmed in the making of this blog. Any similarity to person’s real or imagined is purely purposeful and intentional. Offense intended. That is all.

I am the better for knowing these men and their words? Exquisite.

These are what the ‘words of recovery ‘ look like.  Enjoy.

I got a five dollar handjob from a ten dollar whore,
my lunch is a half pack of Twinkies in my car, and
a shortdog of Thunderbird from the liquor store.
They say I am a bum, and a bum is all I’ll ever be.
First I took a drink; then the drink took a drink
and then the drink took me.

Once i was a charmer, all the women wanted me.
I drank vintage fine wine; dressed in rich finery
nowadays the rags I wear reek of urine and poverty;
panhandling coins for my next; How I came to this is no mystery.
First I took a drink; then the drink took a drink; and then the drink took me.

Alcohol, a subtle foe! The man it defeats is the last to know.
I stumble and mumble and stagger and fall down; just to stand
as example to you; a warning of how things could be
If you ever take a drink that takes a drink, get help quick-
before the drink takes you the same way it took me.

by Sam Spade

Wall Twelve meters tall
Vertigo from looking up
One solid piece of polished granite

Ominous

Meets flat desert floor

Endless

Thick rusted solid Iron Gate
Three meters tall
Almost as thick as the wall

Impenetrable

Smell of rust and blood
From pummeled hands
Deliberately beaten
Against unrelenting Iron Gate

Frustration

Long Shadows
Cast sideways
Along the solid polished wall
Sun setting
Sounds of night creatures readying to hunt

Desperation

Pounding mad like
On Iron Gate
Sound of echoing bass
Escapes over the solid stoic walls

Determination

Remembers key in pummeled, bloody, rust covered hand
Spits dryly into key hole
Last bit of spittle used
Fearfully puts key in lock
Prayers said
Key turned…
Lock moved

Hope

Condemned attic

by Scott Dean

The house willed, parents long since passed.
In younger days the attic was the super lair
where the hero took his deserved repose
after defeating all kinds of malevolent foes.

But death was his most formidable adversary
a kryptonite crippling our protagonist
and when fight turned to flight from adversity
this plight gave rise to the antagonist.

The villain Houdini an expert escapist
wasted away his humble abode
to such a loathsome state of disorder
the bank had no choice but foreclose.

Vacant of true life, it sat on its lot
established a reputation as a squat
the lair of the heir began to rot
in its despondency and stagnation.

The once secure majestic attic
now littered with remnants of despair
stained mattresses, candles, spoons,
empty bottles, and balloons everywhere.

Some ravenously stripped of all of their contents
some with consensual ten dollar deposits
but is consent truly an issue in this
lifestyle of degraded oppression?

Houdini for now reigns supreme in the attic
while the hero in shackles alone in abasement
suddenly reawakens his true heart of a poet
and the battle resumes with new passion.

Link to link to link, down a rabbit hole, led me through Briggs Myers MBTI, into a discussion on Pyrrhic victory,  over Libet’s readiness potential, finally settling on the neuroscience of free will.  Yes. I am an uber nerd and I adore this stuff.  For THIS post however, perhaps a little too involved. Okay REALLY involved.  So I’ve decided to not write about the unbelievably interesting cognitive processes involved in decision making. (Message me if you wanna talk about it though … late night … over coffee or whatever)

Can you imagine just for a moment if we simply said things and didn’t follow through?   “I’m going to get up now.” and stay seated.  “I’m going to work now.” and not.  “I’ve decided to take up basket weaving.” umm huh?  It would be interesting as hell to me to see the percentage of how much this REALLY happens.  Just in recovery land alone, I’m betting it’s a 70 percent reality and best case scenario, we have to be backed into a corner to do pretty much anything.   The pain has to get SOOOOO bad, that following directions … becomes a viable option.

What we think … we become.   Some smart guy said that a long time ago. It seems to me that the whole “decision” making deal, is a process. Steps one, two, three all wrapped in a big bundle.  In order for me to make a decision … I have to break through the denial that I’m even sick, investigate the idea of there being something “bigger” than me to help me resolve the sick, and then decide to do WHATEVER IS NECESSARY TO STOP BEING SICK.

Sounds fairly simple no? No.  Early on, us addicts and drunks, would give ANYTHING … to NOT be addicts and drunks.  Just to be able to use like normal people (ummm. “normal” non-addict types don’t care if they drink or use or not. pretty much a NON-ISH.)  That’s the great lie our heads tell us.  Somehow, someway, if only I do THIS – then I can use again safely. Umm. Experience shows us that is one of the biggest characteristics of our disease.  It’s everyone elses fault.  The “if only” syndrome.  That can stick with us for quite some time, I remember feeling as if I had “victim” stuck to my butt for the first few years.  Hey! It was all I knew.  NOW I know bettah.

Okay back to decisions.  In really really looking at this process. There’s more than one decision making process happening in recovery.   We walk into AA/NA/CA/Whatever-A … and the magic magnifying glass is in effect.   Do these people have what I want? Do I belong here? Are they as bad as me? I can’t be as sick as them? What the hell are these steps? They want me to get numbers for what?  It is INDEED, another world.  One that is alien and scary and if we can get past all the ritualistic mumbo jumbo … perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to hear ONE person say ONE thing … that makes us feel like we belong.

Deciding to go to a meeting, deciding to give this recovery schtick a try, deciding to be willing to do the work.  It’s an important part of the process.  Not a one of us simply came to the rooms and said “Okay bring on the whole fact finding/fact facing process. I’m ready to see what an ass I’ve been all these years.”  There’s a reason it’s done piecemeal.  The mind can only wrap itself around so much.  So today I decide not to use … and then do the necessary things to make that a reality.

Faith without works … blah blah. But there IS indeed merit in the decision making process.  But as Bill and Co. said in the BB (directions for the fourth step – my favorite step btw. yes I know I’m odd)

“Next we launched out on a course of vigorous action, the first step of which was a personal housecleaning, which many of us had never attempted. Though our decision was a vital and crucial step, it could have little permanent effect, unless  at once followed by a strenuous effort to face and be rid of, things in ourselves that had been blocking us.”  Alcoholics Anonymous pg.63-64

If you read “How It Works” Chapter Five in the BB, it is almost entirely dedicated to step three.  The CONVINCING.  It’s important.  Decisions are extremely important.  We have to mentally be ready to take the next dive.  Straight into a morass of the ONE thing we DON’T want to see.  Ourselves.  So yes a decision DOES mean something … but will not stick until we follow through.

So by all means make a decision. Think about it, ponder your life run on self will, see if it’s been successful.  Then. Get your ass to work. I’ll be here to sharpen your pencil at 3 in the morning.  With coffee. And tissues.

New in recovery … or even not so new. Sex can be a difficult topic to discuss. Of course we can refer to our handy dandy recovery books … but all they basically say is ask God and don’t hurt anybody. God likes sex doesn’t he/she/it? I would assume so since we were created to do it.  Some say instinct and some say need. Other schools of recovery thought are coitus anarchists and say “Strap me up baby I’m gettin’ my groove on”.  Others go for the penile prohibition choice, “No sex except for a loving committed relationship … after a year … after the steps … after you’re old and shriveled. And for goodness sakes don’t enjoy it”.

My opinion varies on the subject.  Being a divorced mother of three little cutie pies, my ability to meet eligible men is sketchy at best.  Meet men at meetings? Then you hear “Don’t shit where you eat. AA is not a pickup joint.”  Just for the purpose of being contrary I wonder where exactly us 30-ish, in our sexual prime (omg) folk are sposed’ to find a sexual partner or at least a date for movie night?  Blah.

Everyone being at a different level of recovery/spirituality/healthiness (whatever that means), would suggest that we must be careful in our interactions. What’s okay to one of us certainly won’t be to another.  I think the key may be to NOT be selfish??? The ability to have compassion and see other people for where they are … without judgment.  Little Suzy sunshine may SAY that she can do the horizontal mambo and just be “friends”. Ahem. Three weeks later when your phone blows up every ten seconds would say otherwise.  And that hot-ass new guy that promises that he wants a serious relationship and “We can stay sober together!” … I don’t think I need to finish that thought. At least I hope I don’t … gawd.

Wary of offers for “coffee” from the opposite sex after meetings. Those lead to U-Hauls in driveways more often than not.  At the very least, could lead to waking up next to someone you really may not know well or even like that much if ya do know em.  If someone is pushin to unzip the jeans, even if ya wanna REAL bad, make em’ wait and see if they’re in it to win it … or for the five minute show. Unless the five minute show is all ya want. Be careful though; the fallout can be seriously whack and you may break out in stalkers.

Like anything else in life and especially recovery, we don’t need any more shit than is already on our plate. Sex can be amazing, or a diversion, or a quick fix, or the start of something good.  Know yourself, know your motives, for shitsakes be honest. Meanwhile, “self love” remains my best friend.  Don’t even have to wear makeup or sexy outfits … although I usually do.  Sexy is an attitude. Try not to pervert it. Or do pervert it … just don’t bitch about the consequences.

So … takin’ the escalator … I believe she called it the two step. Get on at step one and glide effortlessly to step twelve. Yeah. I’m SOBAH … now let’s look at you.  Could also be coined  “the pink cloud”.  Clouds of : DAMN I know what’s wrong with me now, look at all these nice people paying me attention when I’ve been alone for so long, I wanna share it with EVERYONE!!! (picture Kumbaya on crack … get me?)

Funny story. Nineteen year old chic, newly outta treatment, totally pinking the cloud baby. Telling anyone and everyone who will listen “I’m sober and there IS a solution!!!” Librarians were all about because we talked about a “book”.  Doctors wanted to prescribe me anti-anxiety meds but patted me on the head anyhow.  Former friends called me an idiot and wanted to “de-cult” me. Grocery store clerks hissed at me because I paid in pennies, they ignored the recovery babble.  Crash, boom baby … in came life. And it was time to get real. Wiped the smile right of my wrinkle free face;  in it’s place a look of determination rose out of the ashes.

Mysteriously enough there are eleven other steps. Who knew? The fact finding, cleansing, awakening, ego-busting … work of recovery.  Kat (SS aka super sponsor) also said something to the effect of … “It’s easy to do the two step as long as you don’t look at yourself.”  How long can we maintain that? For a day or month or twenty? Little bits of sick ooze out all the time. We barely realize it.  I see the word clean in more than one context; cleansing your spirit so all the crud gets out the way.  I mean we’re walking puppets to our sickishness if we don’t get down to the causes and conditions that keep us hostage.

Escalators seem easy. It’s a lie, falsehood, misnomer, mistaken identity, misdemeanor. Easy is NOT recovery. That one step that you stand on automated style,  makes you lazy and internally chubby. Stepping off at the top without taking a machete to the inner jungle is an injustice to your soul. Easy is not worth having. Never lasts.  Doing the true work of recovery means getting down and dirty and REAL. Especially if you don’t wanna.

So next time you see the steps. Take em. Break a sweat, work those glutes. You’ll be glad you did in the end. Cause’ even if it takes a bit longer, honey-child it’s worth the wait.  Let the pansies ride the escalator and appear to have it all together. NO ONE has it together all the time.   I dig the people in meetings that say, “i HATE this shit.”  and “Bite me.” versus the one’s who have all the answers.

We all bleed. That’s why I get you … and I have bandages.

When my daughter Vikki was five years old and Christmas was coming I would tease her playfully. I would tell her how lucky she was to be able to expect so much for Christmas. Remembering stories told me by my depression-era parents, I’d tell her “when I was your age, we were so poor, all I got for Christmas was a rock and a stick.”

Over the days the warnings came that she might only get a rock and a stick; and if she got more she was a blessed child indeed.

On Christmas day there were 200 1981 dollars worth of toys and treasures under the tree. After all the shiny pretty things were opened, two odd shaped packages remained. Yes, as a joke, I’d found an old stick about a foot long and a chunk of old brick about the size of a fist. Vikki got her rock and her stick.

Over the next couple of weeks, toys fell by the wayside. Dishes were lost from tea sets, little mechanical whatzits snick-snacked to a halt, dolls lost hair, eyes and limbs. Soon all the bright and beautiful trifles ands trinkets were gone or simply cast aside. But the rock andd stick remained.

Only the rock and stick were always returned to the cardboard carton that served as my baby girl’s toy box. Only the rock and stick were played with every day. Only the rock and stick were treated as real treasures.

Over the next few months the rock and stick became insturments of magic. I watched Vikki use them as a spaceship, a stove on which to prepare food for honored imaginary guests,a drum, a crystal ball and even a witches cauldron ( where’d she get THAT?).

In 1982 we moved from Milwaukee to California. When we sorted through what we could take and what we would leave behind old books, pretty dresses and ALL old toys were givenaway or discarded;the rock and stick came with us. We shuffled between relatives houses before we got our ownplace. Sometimes in a move somthing would be left behind, some of them seemed to me to be important things. Vikki would just shrug it off and say “it’s okay daddy, i don’t need it.” But, she always remembered her rock and stick.

Years passed, my daughter grew. Oh she’s always been so beautiful. Soon dolls and tea sets and the ornaments of childhood fell by the wayside: “Daddy! Toys are for kids”.

Her tastes changed, her interests changed, we moved three more times withing the “Inland Empire” of southern California. And she always lugged along that old rock and stick. Each time we pack and I’d notice it and laugh “Vikki, you still have this old rock and stick?” She’d shrug and say “Oh, i just never got around to throwing it out”, and leave it at that.

The last move within the golden state was in 1992. I was newly sober and still shakey, wondering if I could do it. Vikki was my number one cheerleader, always reminding me I could. She was no longer my “little” girl. She had become a beautiful young woman, 18 years old with all the possibilities and promises of youth laid out before her.

In that last move, either her mother or I had finally tossed out the old gag gift that Vikki had never remembered to throw away. A few days later Vikki came to me, upset about something and with scared eyes asked “Daddy, have you or mommy seen my rock and stick.”

I said “Baby, we threw that old stuff out when we moved”

“Why?”

“We didn’t think you wanted it anymore”

“Daddy, that was MY rock and stick.” She sighed and with a sad look went in her room and softly closed her door. I went in my room and did the same.

I don’t know if Vikki cried in her room. I cried in mine.

Ronald P.

Whether happy, sad, angry, lost.  Feel it to the core of who you are.

Allow yourself the respect to be just where you are.

Be gentle with you.

Take care of your needs. Bubble baths, lay in bed, stay in your jammies all day.  Drink hot cocoa and gaze at your Christmas tree. Even if you’re alone; you’re in good company.  Take a walk in the crisp snow, make a snow angel, throw a snowball or two or ten.  If it’s warm where you are, go to the beach and breathe the saltiness. See a movie,   buy a trinket cause you like it, treat yourself to you.  Work out, meditate, stretch and feel the physical presence of you. Remember that if you don’t like yourself; no one else will.  Caress your own cheek, arm, neck, legs. Explore the gorgeousness of physicality.

Do you even know how amazing you are? Deep down? Underneath the crud of perception? People can freak about being alone. I like me, dig the moments of “me” time.  Find your center, light a candle, be still and open to find out who you really are. To breathe and feel and be and bask in the glory of Amy.  Make myself laugh; gentle lover in the climax of what is … me.  Waves of orgasmic self realization course through my spirit. You can do this too.  Allow your inner love to shine and be passionate about the reflection.

It’s time. If you’re reading this, it is time. Be.  Dig.  LOVE. Get off … on you.

Slowly I stopped doing what worked. My “boyfriend” didn’t like all the activities. I did them by myself.  Struggles ensued. I wanted so badly for things to work; I began to be less … just less. Got married, immediate pregnancy. Justifications crept in (progression into relapse slant suckin the life outta me). Rationalizing not going to meetings, not talking to my people, not being me.  I own every bit of this shit here. No blame game from this chick. It started slowly, this bedsore of the soul.  Every notch a bit closer to the inevitable.  Baby girl came.  Husband decided to drink again (his shit not mine … totally).

At this point I had no resources. Shame and remorse filled my gullet until I had no nerve left to pick up the 100 pound phone.  “I’m just fine. The problem is him not me. I’m not drinking so whatever.”  I became convinced of this lie, this bacterial infection of my highest self, oozing into my subconscious.  Ever hear that there’s nothing worse than a dry drunk? They ain’t lyin people. Bitter, angry, isolated, depressed, lonely, hateful, cantankerous; no this was no pleasantville.  Fast forward through two more babies, verbal abuse by a drunken husband, a move to another city far away from my recovery land.  Numb, hopeless, self esteem of an amoeba, self hatred seeping into every crevice.  Put on a good show for the babies, Mommy was the ultimate faker.

Smile – liar, laugh – liar, clean house equals serene – liar, fake it in the sex department so he’ll be nice for at least five minutes – liar; the trouble came in when I believed the lie.  After the last mini ninja was born … the active use thoughts came. “I was 19 when I got sober. I’m sure it was just a phase. Bet I could drink just a little.” This dry drunk went on for five years.  My life was so filled with misery and despair it once again became a viable choice.

Drink, drank, drunk. Grocery store rum became gettin the Capt. in me at a phenomenal rate. Daily trips to the liquor store blaming my husbands family for being lushes ended up being thousands in credit card debauchery.  Sociable afternoon drinking quickly became morning “hit” to take the edge off.  I became the stay at home mom kinda drunk; hiding bottles in closets and coffee carafes and two liters of coke zero.  Gettin mouthy. Not “taking it” anymore which wasn’t entirely fair as I’d taken it for almost six years.  Was gettin “uppity” he said. You’re ugly, fat, disgusting, worthless, not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough blah blah fucking blah.  Now look closely. I attracted to me what I felt to be true about me. Someone to treat me the way I thought about me. This is no victim story. Not even a little bit. MY show. MY shit.  I took it. Allowed it. Made a choice.

This show culminated in an act so horrific that I still cannot believe it happened.  Waking up with a remembrance of swinging oscillating fans, squib kicks to the ribs, punches in the jaw and arm and back and soul, whispers of “I’m going to kill you” ringing faintly in my ears, laughing to the tune of insanity “go ahead and kill me it’d be easier than dealing with this everyday”, death was imminent.  It was a dream. Had to be.  Try to sit up and can’t. No fucking dreams here.  Lyin to the doctor before surgery. “I fell down the stairs”. Internal bleeding from a fall. Shredded gall bladder from tripping on the bullshit. Husband approves and brings flowers after surgery.  I know I’m done. It is enough.

I crawl on my face back to AA.  Pretending not to notice the bruises and the gasps of pain as I try to sit down.  Welcomed by strangers with sugary kisses and limitless compassion.  Hand held while years of death are shrugged from my shoulders.  Crying in hysterics until no more tears while come. Dry heaving my steps … again. Pain immense, growth evident. Loving me into self like. Enough like to get it together. Job, self esteem, self worth, just … self.  Eyes blinded in pain by the light, I do the work.  I hate the humility of it all, the “whence I came from stories”, the sobriety countdowns. The “relapse show”. Once  the denial was gone, five years of hell bum rushed my ass and beat me into a state of reasonableness.  Decubitis ulcer debreeded … scraping off the layers of skin to expose the canker.  Dug that shit outta me with the help of simple kindness and steps lovingly spoon fed to me by an amazing sponsor (she saved my life. she knows this. she is humble and doesn’t remind me of such. i love you Kat).  Fully awake again, I know that big changes are a comin … this topic is a whole other blog however.

My hope from this … is that you see the choice in it all.  The choice to stop doing what worked. I had mucho shame upon returning, even after KNOWING what was wrong with me. Disease is no joke.  No matter how people appear on the outside, you never know what a loving hug or handshake can do. Welcome people. Don’t demean. We do that enough for ourselves. Just making it back alive, is proof enough that us “retreads” deserve kindness. The truth does NOT have to be shoved down anyone’s throat.

Relapse is a choice made in hell smothered in self derision and hatred. Delusional grandiosity flavored with chocolaty lies.  Being in the cave becomes comfortable again. Sometimes we need to lose everything … again; to remember who we really are.  I remember. Once again.