Really? Thanksgiving. Yes. Stuff yourself til you sleep day. Remember how the Indians saved our asses then we took their land day. Don’t get me wrong … my gorgeous daughters dressing in pilgrim garb and saying a thankful prayer is omg-adorable.  I dig the cooking, the family-ish-ness, and all that. I do.

My three perfectly exquisite and mischievous ninjas. My reasons for living, breathing, and my absolute joy. If I had naught else in this world, my cup of gratitude overfloweth with just their smiles.

But … I like to look a bit deeper. Dig a bit farther. See the beauty in the not-so-pretty. The worthiness of the struggle. The strength in the pain.

We have that you know. Us people-types.  Those of us struggling for awareness especially.  So I’d like to share with you MY gratitude-what-i’m-thankful-for-every-single-moment-of-every-day-not-just-eat-turkey-and-watch-football-day.

• that I’ve suffered so that I know compassion
• ability to be in pain and embrace pure and utter emotion
• broken to a million pieces for it has strengthened me
• to know the opposite of love – so that I cherish kindness
• to have been hurt in childhood to know what NOT to do with the three most important parts of my life
• to have been bereft of self worth so that I work with diligence on self improvement
• to have scars to remind me from whence I came
• sore feet and an aching back and to smile when the lights come on at home because … I worked for this. Hard.
• loneliness to help me cherish loved ones
• dark to identify light
• to remember the “sick” to see health

For truly… how are we to be awake, without eye openers? And that leads me to acknowledge the amazing people in my life. Who hold out their hands and care for me with an unconditional love that takes my breath away – every single day.  I like to think I do the same. Reciprocity you know.  It’s magic.

Oh and don’t get me started on the folks who have so little. Why does it take a holiday for us to give? To bring it to the forefront of our minds? To push us to be emotionally present and sentimental and in the “thanks” giving mood?  Daily. Monthly. Even bi-annually is more than just around the holidays.  Mindful of our interdependency. THAT is where I want to be.  Aware and awake and full of thanks for every little kindness. I’d say that’d be a lovely present to share today… and all days. Every moment, every breath … the “present” … and you are the gift.

Happy Thanks-Giving. Take a moment to find out what you’re REALLY grateful for. And yes that includes adjustable waistband pants. It is stuff yourself day yanno.

Without recovery… no amount of thanks-for-anything, would be possible. So when it comes down to it? Being a SOBER sassy girl… allows me to know the difference between selfishness and humility, numb and grateful. Thanks for that. Thanks for YOU. I’ve been writing this blog for three years now, which in internets time is like CENTURIES. When I sit down to my lappity lap top I feel like I’m about to talk to old friends, which of course… I am. This blog has saved my life (and my ass) so many times I can’t even begin to count. You see, as any good writer will tell you, writers write what they need to remember/learn/DO. And the fact that I’ve met so many amazing people as a result? Well that’s just the gravy.

Thank you. I love you… and, as always, I Love Recovery. Happy Thanksgiving my friends.

Look at the idea of  love relationships for a moment.  Is it really all sunshine and roses, candy coated goodnight kisses, lollipops and rainbows? Umm. No. Anyone who has survived a broken heart can spew for weeks on this topic. Love can be painful and bittersweet, succulent and obsessive, miserable and joyous; all sorts of mixed up -  mashed -  fly by night – kick ass emotions wrapped with heartstrings and leather studded blindfolds.

The opposite of love isn’t hate you know … it’s apathy, aka: not giving a hoot or holler.  Love and hate are the flip of the same coin called emotion.  So possibly it would be safe to call this website … I Emote Recovery. (Not to be confused with I Emo Recovery where they all wear black eyeliner and write tragic love sonnets to the sobriety gods).

Twisting and turning, ever entwining intricacies of recovery life … hell let’s just call it life cause that’s what it really is anyhow right? We’re just labeling it recovery because we forgot or didn’t learn all the life skills that normal children have gained by age 12.  Using became the only way to stop the life circus and get rid of the scary clowns.  Problem is, the clowns were hiding under the damn bed the whole time. Now that we put down the bottle/pipe/needle/prostitute/poker chip/razor blade, we’re newborn babes mewling helplessly cause we can’t change our own diaper.

The notion that love sometimes hurts – and hurt can bring growth – and growth can sow love, is one idea that I can live with today.  Circular thinking or interconnectedness or hell I don’t know – just feeling alive is love to me these days. I could quote a Nazareth song right now … but I won’t. Let’s just suffice to say that I do indeed love recovery; in an emo inspired, tragic comedy, black eyeliner kinda way.

Now about that sobriety god poem idea …

I mean really. The early recovery questions of “should I hang with so and so?” to the seven year itch of “should I keep going to these damn meetings?” to relationships, friendships, family ties, what job to choose, does he like me, am I doing the right things … question question question … angst angst angst … bleck bleck bleck.

I ache sometimes to know which fork in the road to choose (I know you can’t relate *eye roll*). Which way lies the path of clarity and consistency?  I play the Ramone’s Should I Stay or Should I Go, just to mess with my head some and laugh out the wrinkles in my cognitive reasoning.  I want SO badly to believe in the fantasy ya know? That people are good and nice and have my best interest at heart.  That just ain’t the case sometimes sport.  There’s always … and yes I used that word … an agenda. Whether people realize it or not. Not always a “bad” one mind you, but an agenda nonetheless.

Is there such a thing as completely unconditional? No payoffs, no touchy feely, dudley-do-right, here lemme “help” you’s?  My head plays in fantasy island; the what if’s, could be’s, and if only’s. That’s crap. Real is real. And can be hurtful and brutal and cold. If I’m not my biggest fan, I’m fucked.  Cause you can be damn sure that people aren’t going to tote home my dirty drawers and wash em’ up all purty with their own.

Bottom line is just that.  What’s it gonna take … to take care of my lil’ ole soul? Sure ain’t the smooth talkin’ boys who say all the right words but fizzle out after they find out this girl ain’t that easy.  Friends, sponsors, family all are amazing. However they don’t lay on my pillow wiping away tears of lonely and afraid. I DO THAT. And I like that I do.

Steps and work are crucial to relative sanity and recovery. But me … loving me … and a power greater than wanting me to do so … is the only thing that counts when the rubber hits the road.  I make mistakes just like the rest of you … probably more so since I’m gullible girl and that’s okay.  Owning it, making it mine, taking responsibility for MY choices … makes the bitter pills bearable to swallow dry.

Should I stay or should I go? Only I know … I get clues or hints from well meaning loved ones. Truly my gut is the final judge. You know,  the place without words that causes bile to rise when something is whack. Years of work it’s taken me to listen to that voice.  It used to be a shrill nagger … now it’s Barry White. Smooth, silken tones of reason and clarity.  As I always tell my friends, “You already have all the answers … what’s keeping you from seeing them?”  *Heal thyself smart-ass*  Barry snickers.

I’m gonna go slip into my robe, groove to “can’t get enough of your love babe”, light a candle, and slow dance myself to sleep.  Angst can get bent.

Gut churning is a sign, along with a raised eyebrow or eye roll.  Something is not quite right here champ, take a gander at the internal flashing lights.  Inventory taking helps, as does talking with sponsor like folks or spiritual teachers worldwide.  In the end, however, we shine our own light on issues far and wide and will not be moved if our heels are dug in deep.

We all know the much cited Einsteinian definition of insanity … repetition with like results equals “duh”.  Beating bloody fists into the same issue over and over and over; shocked when it’s not different … this time.  Why try a different choice? Why take the risk of healthiness? Replay has worked so far right? I mean doing the same things over and over is familiar and comfortable (see prior blog “Shitty Diaper” for further reference).

Spirit (gut, conscience, god, belief, karma, et cetera), won’t let us get away with it. Manifesting in a million ways it is a bitch of Jiminy Cricket;  stomach pain stress levels, sweaty palms and sleepless nights lend themselves to the pounding of the “real” inside coming out.  Get out the rolaids and take an ambien, it’ll be okay.  Until it’s not.  When the unspoken screams to be heard “STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING HERE” bleed to the brain, then we begin the process of change.

Recovery process (those silly steps again sheesh) in essence helps us to listen to the internal mumbling by erasing all the justifications rattling our brain.  No excuses leaves an open window for spiritual awareness.  Meditation becomes meaningful and really listening to those around us with an open heart leads to “AHA” moments worldwide.  Take a listen, write out the pro’s and con’s with a red sharpie, ask and ask and ask some more … when someone loves you enough to give their take,  this time really listen.

Spiritually absent or spiritually aware?

A little snide here, a bit of  self absorbed there, a smidge of jealousy, a whiff of demanding.  First getting to know someone whether ethernet induced or “real” life (lol what is real anyway?), you always have hints.  An inkling, if you will, of things to come. Prescient subconscious nudges of “WTF” and “this ain’t good mama”, are just begging to be listened to.

But noooooooooo. You wanna be “nice” (middle finger inserted here) and see them for who they REALLY are.  Them demanding all your time is okay right? Means they like ya (Jim Carey voice here).  Jealous? Oh nooooooo, that’s not jealousy it’s just being protective (ahem).  Like OMG they really care about me you tell your friends in a valley girl voice. I mean like he wants to SEND me stuff.  Like that costs MONEY!!! Totally tubular.  (wtf?)

Time marches. Hints turn into HELLO I KNOW … you just didn’t say that to me? You’re tryin’ to tell me not to talk to WHOM? (yes grammar is important) Or… I’m not showing you THAT (on webcam). Okay maybe once cause it’s hot and I like seeing myself on camera, but BOO for asking. Really? You just didn’t say that about me in front of EVERYONE!!! Ass.

Yep. Betcha been there. Or done it even, who knows.  People generally put their best foot forward in the beginning. We, as sentient human beings purportedly know this.  Ignore on, blinders up, pull the wool over our own eyes.  Yep.  Also, and more importantly, we get stuck in Fantasy Island (aww Tattoo … midget… cute.).  The what if’s, could be’s, and if only’s come out to play and we build people up to be something they’re just … NOT.

So. Next time your gut is doing a primal scream of  “somethin’ ain’t right up in here”.  Listen would ya? THAT… is the voice of reason. Be cautiously optimistic. Now before the great J rolls his eyes at me about the raw … I’m not saying to flip off the real and avoid playing in the pain-box.  All experience is golden and vulnerability is orgasmic.  I AM saying that when you see the flashing red lights, pay fukkin attention. There are plenty of playmates out there kiddo that’ll not trigger the inner uh-oh. (hey!!  i like that …  “inner uh-oh”, good book chapter no?)

In essence; be wise, be mindful and pick your do-si-do partner carefully.  When your “sick sense neurons” don’t send you as many “WTF! I know you just didn’t … ” messages, get down and dirty and doggie style (it’s a metaphor people chill out).  In order to get bettah at bein on the real, someone has GOT to stimulate that shit.  If it means masturbation for a minute, so be it.  Nobody likes an unfair fight. Spar baby, pro style. Amateur hour is ovah.

I challenge you to share your stories of hope, faith, joy, love, growth from pain … etc etc.  Let’s give a little back to  those who just might need a reason to celebrate.  This goes for people who are in recovery from ANYTHING here … (gambling, drugs, alcohol, sex, another person, etc …) and for the people who love us recovering folk.

Stop by, write a comment, drink a cup of cheer. Or hot chocolate … but cheer doesn’t make my ass bigger.  Wait!!!  I hear big asses are in style this year … whatever.

I will post them ALL, write me a story, tell me all about it, send it here, or at soberandsassy@yahoo.com. TELL me … TELL US … we will listen.

Share a gift with another.  The gift of compassion and love. The gift of YOU.

We’ll be waiting.

Romantic love is the stuff of songs and emo poets who bleed tears on their laptops til they finally self flagellate themselves to sleep. Can’t live without you … Can’t breathe … Need you … Want you … won’t be complete without you. Really??? I mean really. Seriously? That’s the crushin, the lustin, the get your groove on-in and out, and out and in. I can go to the closest slushie machine at the local stop n shop and find a boy to crush on (well maybe not .. eww .. but you get the idea).

That can fade. Melt away. Hopefully to return, in a kindler and gentler form someday. That’s when the eye begins to wander again, the scratch that needs a itchin’ comes back to play. The unreal, the fantasy, the great lie. The knight in shining armor who has no halitosis, an eight inch girthy _______ (fill in the blank there are children on here), never hawks other hot chicks, and certainly ALWAYS sleeps in the wet spot.

Diggin the real kinda lovin’. The no matter what, I’m on your side kinda love. Let’s just “be” and chill and not have to say a word. The one you can wear no makeup around. Thinks your sexy in your pink fluffy robe, kind. Your soft place to land, friend when it counts, instigator when it counts more. The type that makes you wanna be a better you. First person you call, good news or not so. Irritates the hell outta ya, but chuckle nonetheless and tell all your friends what a freakin adorable dork you’re with. Comfortable silences and knowing glances. Body language says everything, no verbals required.

Loving someone is being the best you … you can possibly be. Stick-to-itiveness to me, stick to me ness, just stick. Stay. Be around. What I give my attention to flourishes like fertilizer to the big red muscle in the chest. Do what you say. THAT’s love. Mean what you say is even lovelier.

Verb, noun, adjective, fukkin dangling participle. Just do it. Feel it. BE IT. Love.