Now I’ve posted on sex relations. More than once. Disclaimer: AA/NA/CA/SLA (especially) and any other program ending in A does not represent fodder for pick up joint status. Now, with THAT being said, where the hell else am I going to meet like minded folks.  I don’t propose “trolling” for hotties by any means, but fellowshipping and social time is completely different.  I mean have you SEEN some of the derrieres during a healthy bowling match post meeting? Whew. I’m kidding. Sorta. Hey I’m a thirty something with eyes.  And I’m grown. Shush. But I am kidding. And sometimes a boy DOES meet a girl on AA campus. Sometimes miracles happen. Why not? Don’t we all deserve some joy? hmmph.

Relationships in recovery.  I’m no expert trust me on this one. But I have had some interesting experiences in this vein. One ended in a less than lovely marriage.  Current relationship is bringing much joy and peace and love. People are people no matter in recovery or not.  (duh)  The rules are no different. Who is healthful and who is not? What are your motives? Have you worked through your own shit enough to even know what a relationship is? How do you apply the principles of recovery to primary love relations? Okay I’m done being all questiony. Time for some answers.

My friend Astrophysh @ http://Astrofysh.Tripod.com (yes this is a link) made me laugh for an hour or three. Okay I chuckled most of the night.  Read on. You’ll see.  I know I know you’re already thinking …

Just read it all the way through before you blow a gasket. tyvm. *ahem*

THE 12 STEPS TO A RELATIONSHIP

STEP ZERO
Sobering up and realizing we were lonely, horny and desperate. We sought to find that special someone, to fill that gaping hole inside us that you could fly a Boeing 747 through.

STEP ONE
Admitted we were obsessing on someone other than ourselves (miracle) and that our lives were soon quickly going to turn to shit.

STEP TWO
Came to believe that we needed to have sex with this special someone as soon as possible… And as often.

STEP THREE
Made a decision to turn our bodies and minds over to the care of this special someone, in the hopes that they will fix us.

STEP FOUR
Made a searching and fearless physical examination of each other.

STEP FIVE
Manipulating and rationalizing with the committees in our heads, the justification of this relationship.

STEP SIX
Pointing out their character defects whenever possible.

STEP SIX And A HALF
Fighting and breaking up….

STEP SIX And THREE-QUARTERS
Getting back together…

STEP SEVEN
More Sex. (Called “I’m Sorry” Sex.)

STEP EIGHT
Made a list of all the things they were doing wrong and became willing to let them know about it.

STEP NINE
Admitted to them, we were always right. Making sure when we did so it would make them feel permanently inadequate.

STEP TEN
Continued to take each others inventory whenever possible, justifying how we were the victim in this relationship.

MOMENT OF CLARITY! … Taking Action!

STEP ELEVEN
-Asking for help
-Calling your sponsor
-Taking the steps
-Reading and writing
-Complete Housecleaning
-Being Honest
-Making amends
-Trusting in God
-Utilizing prayer
-Helping others
-Being of service

ANOTHER MOMENT OF CLARITY, Then…
-Began admitting when we were wrong and seeing our part
-Showing love through action (Outside of the bedroom)
-Showing up for the relationship (What a concept)

STEP TWELVE
Having had spiritual reckoning. We realized we needed to forgive and love ourselves… before we could love another….

*****

STEP THIRTEEN
Refer back to Step One…… ( Didn’t you learn the first time?!?)

So after careful examination and a hurting belly from laughing, it would seem that if YOUR house is clean, you just might be able to invite another over to ‘visit’.  A seemingly normal person however could be triggered into a whole world of “WTF” when you add love interest into the equation.  But really? You’ll not grow without incentive. Growing pains hurt but are SO SO worth it.  Amazing can be gleaned in the working through of problems … together.

Picture a triangle. Got it? Good. Now you are on one of the bottom sides. Your partner is on the other. Higher Power/Power greater/spirit of the universe/ Allah/Buddha/baby Jesus/whomsoever I don’t even care … is on TOP.  Equal interchange of energy up and down and around and around the isosceles.  One stops giving/receiving the whole unit breaks down. One gives and gives and gives … with no return? Ashes ashes we all fall down.  Relationships require a measure of give and take and health and YES even INVENTORIES. (omg she’s talkin’ about this AGAIN)

Yep, stock in trade of where you are where you’re going together and where you want to be. Stop groaning, you should be old hat at this by now.  Where was I selfish dishonest self-seeking or afraid? Where did I want my partner to think and act MY way?  What’s my ‘stuff’ versus our ‘stuff’ and what’s my responsibility to make things better. Now.  You can do this. I can do this. Hell for the first time ever I AM doing this. And if this sassy girl can get with healthy you sure as hell can too. Motives baby. Watch em’. And don’t be afraid to get a little messy – real lovin’ is never squeaky clean. Cept’ with my rubber ducky and that is another story ENTIRELY.

Be … well.

Postscript:   And yes I’m really sappy right now. I’m not sure if it’s going to pass. I surely hope not

“We are people who normally would not mix. But there exists among us a fellowship, a friendliness, and an understanding which is indescribably wonderful”.  Chapter 2. Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. (if I tell you the page then you won’t read it to make sure I’m not pullin’ yer leg)

I had a sponsor do that once.  My very first.  Find flippin’ awesome ways to make me read the book.  She’d write little snippets all through it. “One certificate for a free steak dinner if you find the quote about acceptance.”   She was an older lady, funny as hell.  Not someone I’d have met any other place but in the rooms.  Always wore saucy red shoes and talk about the “Hillbilly Beer Gardens” in Kentucky.   I loved her with all my might.  She was more nurturing to me than a hundred of my peer group could have ever been.  Kentucky born and bred, old enough to be my grandmother, one of the first handful of women in AA, brash and bold and beautiful, alcoholic.

And then I got my first ride on the back of a Harley to Cook’s Forest PA camping/convention.  Never been a biker chick but I certainly found out I could rock some chaps.  What a sense of community they had.  I was loved through a sore rump that weekend.  Hot ass, bike lovers, real and raw, alcoholics.

Oh and I can’t forget Kailash.  My partner on a “god walk” at an Akron Area spiritual retreat.  With my early twenty something self I said God to me was a “big blob of love”.  I’m not kidding.  We laughed about that for almost two decades.  Doctor, brilliant man, native to India, alcoholic.  One of my dearest friends.

Dan. The man.  Young peoples conventions.  Co-chair with me for OYPAA (Ohio Young People’s convention of Alcoholics Anonymous) about a decade ago.  Crazy hair, alternative lifestyle, been involved in young peoples forever, loved to wave light sticks, suspected nudist, alcoholic.

Paula. Online friend. Our beliefs and similarities are so significant that I could swear we’re sisters.  Never met her. Hopefully will someday.  She’s bright and cheery and loving and lovely.  Courage that would take your breath away.  Mother, daughter, writer/poet, amazing woman, alcoholic.

Me.  (too much to describe. i think. yeah i’m pretty sure) Mixing with hundreds possibly thousands of folks in recovery over the years;  loving them, living the gift of recovery.  Common bonds of sick begetting unspeakable beauty.

Indescribably … wonderful.

For all the people who have touched my life and loved me through it all …

I love you. I miss you. You saved my life.

This is not all a bad thing. Ask my facebook chums and they’ll tell you I bring my own special brand of sweet cyni-skepticality to my everyday internet interactions.  However … when it comes to the recovery process I follow a basic philosophy.  Be optimistically positive and all that that … entails. Now I’m not talking some Pippy Longstocking Pig Tailed wide-eyed gullible always smiling ditzy never dark or crying – cockamamie crap.  Positive in the way that whether the glass is half empty or half full … the idea that there is a glass at all is amazing in and of itself.  I believe the book that is blue (yes that one) states in discussing the fourth step states on page 66 and 67 …

• If we were to live, we had to be free from anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us. They may be the dubious luxury of normal men, but for alcoholics these things are poison…
• 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 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.

(as always God is defined by yours truly as whatever you need it to be. I’m sooo not a religious gal.  Use great spirit, allah, buddha, a dishtowel, collective unconscious, 12 step groups, or your great Uncle Al with the weird mustache. Spiritual sluttism is always win.)

Hmm.  I had to look up the word grouch because all I could see in my transient minds eye was a green muppet in a garbage can.  Of course my favorite Sesame Street character.  So my friend Merriam whispered the definition to me  — grouch (intransitive verb) :

1. a : a fit of bad temper b : grudge, complaint
2. a habitually irritable or complaining person : grumbler

Somewhere. Someday. Somehow. Someone will appreciate the ultimate non dark, lack of mysterious, sunny side up, dippy egged, easy laughter and pigtails … that is me.

I found out … they do. I do. It does. (huh?) A little sunny in the disposition never hurt a girl. Positive. NOT a dirty word. Goth and Emo are so last year.  So I’ve thrown away my black fingernail polish (never the eyeliner though … as if) and I’mma simply stay congruent to who I am.  As I cogently tell myself over and over, Amy you don’t do grouchy well at all.  Good thing.

There is a great beauty in emotion and the expressing of such things.  Tears can bond people for an eternity, a few words of compassion for suffering can change lives.  Rain has to fall – for flowers to bloom – so that we can pick them – and watch them wither – leaving us in anticipation of – the next batch of flowers – to come our way. It’s a cyclical thing. Think peaks and valleys, there is exquisite in both.

Now if you’re anything like this dope fiend/drunk, emotions were something that I didn’t share much.  I thought.  They came out regardless.  Mostly in anger which is a cover anyhow.  Scathing sarcasm is indicative of this as is passive aggressive behavior.  Not coming out and emoting in a healthy way but leaking with the sick of repression.

To be fair, I didn’t know how.  “You’re so sensitive. Why do you cry all the time? Buck up and deal kid.” were family mantras of so long ago.  I can’t even imagine telling my three blonde headed ninjas such things.  Crying is healing and important.  It lets off the pressure (whatever THAT might be) and allows for physical release of emotional stress.  Without a vehicle for expression, emotions turned inward can destroy.

Now. Seriously. I’m not an alcoholic because I couldn’t express my emotions.  I believe that is pretty normal among the human species.  Alcoholics and addicts DO NOT CORNER THE MARKET ON PAIN.  Sorry. I know we like to think we’re terminally unique.  But we’re simply not. Show me an example of a perfectly healthy family.  I dare you.  Where every single time every parent does everything right in every way every day … yeah.  Not happenin.  But some families teach more coping skills than others.  Mine? Not so much.  Of course not their fault because they’re subconsciously simply teaching what they were taught.  Now… enter substances.  Not only does my body do the happy dance because it just simply “FITS” but I’ve found my coping skill baby.  Don’t-give-a-shit-ism via cheap beer and skunk weed.  I was a teen shushit.  (To see more about physiological addiction see prior sassy blog post called Relapse Just the basics maam’ http://iloverecovery.com/2009/12/11/relapse-part-uno/.)

I stop feeling. Completely. Other than angry, saucy, and perhaps horny. (what? it’s true) And even those “feelings” are suspect.  Add on years of addictive unhealthy behavior on top of NOT feeling the consequences.  Forgettaboutit. Sunk.  We crawl into the rooms a hot mess in a dress. Figuratively speaking. I wore short shorts.  Either crying all the time or stoicism from hell, vacillated between the two for quite a bit of time.  Then here come these “suggestions” in the form of step work, sharing, opening up without being judged (thank your deity of choice) … and healing begins.

The secret to all this, which really isn’t so secret after all, is being real.  That it’s simply okay to be human.  We have a real issue with this.  Expectations to be somewhere we’re not, to be strong, to have all the answers; block us every time.  Is it strong really to lie? It takes so much damn courage to cry that it takes my breath away when I see someone letting all their defenses down.  Amazing and beautiful and poignant and oozing recovery.

There is much dignity and grace in simply being. No good or bad or wrong or right in feeling what you’re feeling.  I know what you’re thinking … just don’t get stuck in it right??? Right.  THAT is where emotional intelligence comes in; you feel what you need to feel and THEN you move on.  If you have a problem knowing when that “when” is?  I’m sure your sponsor will let you know.  Mine does. And if there is no one to tell you that? Message me and we’ll be all about it k?  Cause’ I know there is healing … in the feeling. I can hang.

In the recovery show, fear is delineated as one of our worst enemies.  Specifically addressed in the fourth step, the promises, and all throughout recovery literature (in one way or another) it is the biggest tool our “disease” uses as subterfuge.  Best way to derail recovery? Slide a little fear into the humble pie and then do NOTHING about it.  It is human nature to be fearful from time to time … it’s an impulse – per Wikipedia:

• Fear is an emotional response to a perceived threat. It is a basic survival mechanism occurring in response to a specific stimulus, such as pain or the threat of danger.

Where the “ish” comes in is simply this. WHAT EXACTLY IS THE STIMULUS FOR DANGER??? If it comes from an unreliable source (i.e. “sick thinking”) and is a problem of perception, then it is an IRRATIONAL fear. (thank you Wikipedia … again)

• Irrational behaviors of individuals include taking offense or becoming angry about a situation that has not yet occurred, expressing emotions exaggeratedly (such as crying hysterically), maintaining unrealistic expectations, engaging in irresponsible conduct such as problem intoxication, disorganization, or extravagance, and falling victim to confidence tricks.

Soooooooo what you say? I already know this. I already KNOW how to handle this. Stepwork, positive self talk, listing rational versus irrational fears, talking it out with a sponsor or trusted recovery friend, praying, meditating, physical activity, thought-changing techniques, mindfulness, working with another dope fiend/drunk … yes I know you know. (I think)  But even the self proclaimed Queen of Inventory Taking ( yours truly – *curtsy*) gets stuck all up in “it” sometimes. Horrible feeling KNOWING that what your mind is telling you is just … plain … wrong.  You’re not alone in this. Not by a long shot.

A problem thought shared with another person is a like debreeding a bedsore (eww).  Akin to a festering of this nature (sorry for the analogy but it’s a DAMN good one),  we must DIG it out.  Because it can be very easy for us to “act as if” everything is fine … when it’s simply not.  Hell our fear could even be linked to talking to other people.  I’ll share with you what my first sponsor told me when I feebly suggested that I didn’t “like” talking to women.  WHO THE HELL SAID ANYTHING ABOUT LIKING? GIRL YOU’RE GONNA DIE. LIKE IT OR NOT. And then she walked away chuckling mumbling “girl is crazy … has to like it. good lord.”  I got the message.  I talked. I shared. Didn’t like it one bit. It hurt. It was difficult. So. WHAT.

Apparently the purpose of this rant (of sorts) is to be reminded that no matter what, Face Everything And Recover.  FEAR. Like it or don’t like it. Twenty days or twenty years … no one is exempt from the insidious fingers of fear.  It’s part of the sick that must be sizzled by the sunlight of the spirit. (oooooh that was a good one) And you may just be surprised … the person you talk to may just have the same exact fear as you; then you can both laugh. Then move on to better topics … like boys, or shoes, or bizarre facebook postings like mine the other day … *ahem* moving along now.

Night cool kids. Thanks for being here <3

fairy tales …

once upon a time
i let the resounding
bong of the hopeless gong
speak it’s song of terror
of fear and loss
pain and shame
issues with tissues
all day long
in an empty bed
of sleepless nights
no pillow fights
agonizing over
wrongs and rights
tight lipped fear
it found me

and then
princess charming
pulled her disarming ass
up by her boot straps
with hands both clapping
listen to the sound
of the blondes
on my neck standing
screaming NO
no more show
it’s time to grow
no more fear
tears for years
are over now.
self speak saves
ipod repeats.

discovered
succinctly
what will be
within my “me”
is the resolution
constitutional
institution of hope.
bills get paid
i’ll eventually get laid
*pause*
shades of gray
completely
okay today.

you see …
drama has left
although
life is difficult
and easy
it pleases
that i have
the strength
fortitudinal attitude
of gratitude
to assuage
that monkey
choking me.

over intellectual attack
get back retract
subtracting the
negativity equation
elation at waves
of peace
covering
soul blisters
sinister scars of
legal – speak
squeaks of torture
supposed
whore-to-cultural
diva is so becoming

woke myself up
kiss my own frog
live my own life
have my own sing-a-long
dance my own dances
slayed my own dragon
take my own chances
threw that effin’ apple out
glass slippers are for bitches
i make my own riches
take that on the chin
brothers Grimm …
grim got gone.

no longer running
sitting in meditative
bliss never missing
an opportunity
to scribe my vibe.
if it hadn’t
all happened …
i’d not be me.
and today
i like very much
what i see.

and she lived.

(not necessarily) THE END.

Then you have those that are part of the relapse club.  During my prior stint of uninterrupted sobriety, I never quite understood it.  Intellectually I did, of course, but way deep down I had committed to myself that I KNEW I was an alcoholic. That I wasn’t gonna use again no matter what.  People really know of what they speak when they say the simple phrase … I’m not going to pick up just for today.

Prime example of when you stop doing what works … what works stops working.  Duh you say. Really? How often have you slacked on meetings, sponsorship, step work, et cetera? Do you know how close you’ve been to picking up again?  I can tell you (in 20\20 retrospect of course) that my relapse began five years before I drank again. Yep. When I got married to Prince Charmingless and phrases like ” You’re just going to meetings to get laid” began to drift around our house.  Of course I was shocked. At the time I had ten years sober and was extremely active. I CHOSE (get the emphasis here kids?) to slowly drift away. MY CHOICE to listen to lies … both in and out of my head.

When people say “You are what you hang around.” baby they ain’t lyin. Holy hell.  Then we slide back into sick thinking and our disease gets stronger by the moment.  Even though my entire life had been recovery focused with meetings, sponsoring, conventions, Young Peoples conference committees (yes I was young once … shush), a licensed Chemical Dependency Therapist; if you stop doing it … “it” goes away. Every time.

Any joy and zest for life leaves, when you’re living a life unexamined.  Fear and resentment again become large and in charge and denial is stamped on your forehead.  Dry time. Not drinking but not sober. Happy, joyous, and free? Paugh. Miserable, fearful, and imprisoned becomes the norm.  Marking time until the inevitable.  When all healthful coping mechanisms are gone, and once more drinking/drugging becomes a viable option.  Lies layered upon lies in a huge pastry of fail.  Usher in the year of the relapse. (we’ve covered what happened in prior blog posts … read back or use your imagination. either way it would be accurate. suckage. major.)

Time, time, time.  Coming back was the shame game. Yeah but I had 15 years. How could I have done this? Blah blah blah.  The picture of disgusting non-gratitude. I was alive. Barely. But I was alive dammit.  The first year was torture. Time was on my mind every meeting.  I would hear people say “I know lots of folks with lots of time that are sick. Time doesn’t matter.”  Of course I thought BULLSHIT … the only people that say that are ones that don’t have any time. Yeah I was a sick chick.

Refrained from discussing time … or always prefaced my sobriety with “yeah but I had 15 years. I knew this … I knew that.”  I knew shit.  Really. I had it twisted you see.  Cause’ time DOES matter.  Every second, every moment that I’m not actively using; there is HOPE that it can get better.  My sick turns everything around on me.  Focusing on what I’d lost versus what was gained.

I gained an understanding of the disease that I’d not had prior.  Of how easy it was to sink into the morass of sickly self pity and shame.  That I knew to the innermost core of my soul that I indeed had this illness. And I might not die if I used again … but perhaps just wished that I would. Living as a dry drunk is a fate worse than death … I’ve been that … death would have been easier.

One thing is certain, my awareness of my illness is at an all time high.  Time lost, time gained, time as a cornerstone for healthy, time as indicator of self love, time as … hope.  “This time around” (god do I detest that phrase), I’m different (i know *eye roll* but it’s true) there ARE lessons learned through experience.  I’m a step fiend.  I do inventories more than most folk use the powder room.  Sometimes … they come in blog form. (Like this one.)

Two years. Yesterday. I went the entire day without saying “yeah but it shoulda been 18″. Bleck.  Time matters. This exact moment of recovery matters.  A million moments matter. I no longer flinch at sobriety countdowns. It’s okay when someone says “you only have two years … what do you know?”.  I grin to myself and say … “lots and lots. just for this moment in time; I know that’s it’s okay.” This time. All the time. If I give it time. Time. Matters.

Break room scene number one; serendipitous surprise of recovery talk with a friend.  Someone I admire and like muchly.  (We’ll call her “B”. She knows who she is *wink*)  She was gloriously brave talking of a family members inability to stop drinking and the aftermath she lovingly is caring for, the aftermath being a child.  To be able to share experience, strength, and hope in the most unlikely of places was a gift fo’ sho’.  I was moved beyond measure.

Fast forward to 1-ish. Another break (yes I know I get two … can you believe that?) and what happened next made it hard to swallow.  A coworker had previously made a comment about my children being well behaved like their father. *ahem* If you’ve read any of my blogs on Domestic Violence and my past … you’ll get this.  If not … read back to understand or kick rocks.  The “commenter” was met with silence.  You see … the room was filled with my friends … that I didn’t even realize I had connected so closely with.  They’ve read my scratches, here and facebook … they’ve seen and heard me.

Now this may seem small to you.  Minute, moot, insignificant, obtuse, and just plain pathetic. But to someone such as myself, who has been disconnected from the universe for years; this is beyond epic. After “B” told me, on the second break, how people spoke kindly of me … were compassionate towards me … KNEW me; I was utterly dumbfounded.  The tears came and would NOT stop.  That rarely happens as I pride myself on intellect over emotion, yes I know roll your eyes.

For the first time in almost a decade (seven years of a marriage gone sour and two trying to recover), I am connected.  Transparent. Congruent. Aware. Awake. Real. What a freakin’ report card that was.  And I didn’t cry because this year should’ve been (i know that word sucks but shush) 18  instead of 2 years. And it’s not because I flushed 15 years down the toilet.  And it’s not because my ex beat me into a bloody pulp. And it’s not because my I’m starting over again … in every way possible to start over. Not because I sleep alone or haven’t felt a loving touch from a man in so long I can’t remember.  Nope. None of those things matter, at this particular moment anyway.

Simple kindness. From unexpected sources. That as a result of recovery, I am not alone.  We sorta “expect” kindness in the rooms and all.  But “earth people” (I abhor that term by the way. bleck.) with no agenda? When I wasn’t even there? Even now tears are hitting the keyboard.  The huge brick wall has dissolved, and I didn’t even know it.  Maybe for the first time in so many long lonely years, I’m not only okay … but part of life again.

An appendix in the back of the Big Blue Book tells me that many times spiritual experiences are of the educational variety.  That they “develop slowly over a period of time” and that quite often everyone else can see it … before we can.  Wham. Bam. I saw it as it slapped me in the face. I am no longer apart from but a part of … this thing called life.

I cried like an infant today. Tears of healing, of liberation, of forgiveness, and hope. So many tears that it was almost the undoing of me. Cleansing and meaningful.  For the love of life, the love of me, the love of unexpected friends, and for the love  …  of recovery. Blessed beyond measure, call me a crybaby and I’m okay with it.  It’s real and raw. And I’m all about that … as you well know.  Thanks for today “B”. Whether you know it or not, you left me a changed woman.  And for that … I’ll be eternally grateful.

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 …

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?