Oh to describe perfection … in a six year old body.

Mommy why do I have to leave? Why do I have to go away from you this weekend? Don’t they know I belong with you? It would have hurt me less to be knocked with a 2×4 by the boys at work. How do I do this? My heart is breaking in front of me in the form of my first born babygirl.

I say to this beauty … all the “right” things. Like “just because mommy and daddy aren’t married doesn’t mean we don’t love you baby girl” and “blah blah blah:” and “fucking blah”.

It’s bullshit. All of it. She knows this.

She’s smarter than me. Wittier. A charmer. Intellectual powerhouse with savvy and style. Senses the unfairness, innate knowing of innocence. This is my bella … the wondrous feminine that resides in my soul. Miracle and twinkle in my toes. Hazel eyes that melt ya like smores on a hot summer night. Spice for your sugar. Wriggly blonde goddess. Knows more than me … feels more too. She takes care of me. Of ME!!!

Back to reading favorite stories of rags and cinders. Of happily ever afters. It’s tainted. Fantasy. Fairy tales and misguided well meaning Grimm Brother mistruths. Sometimes prince charming squib kicks his true love in the gullet after throwin down one too many with the boys. Sometimes dreams of everlasting kisses are a flash in the pan .

She stops me again, brimming with tears. Unanswerable questions of unrequited love blaze in her eyes. Why is the unspoken. I attempt again . That “sometimes” mommys and daddys can’t live together and it’s not her fault. That it’s gonna be ok.

It’s not ok. Not by a Herculean discus toss. Tiny, warm hands cup my face. Eyes widening I look at the reason I exist. I say her daddy loves her, that it’s ok to love him back. That these are matters for the grown folks. She says , “That’s not the point mommy. I’m sposed to be with you. Mommy’s are always sposed to be there. My heart hurts.” Somebody shoot me.

My heart with hazelnut eyes pleads another slant …explains to me that she wants to be with her friends. She’s missing the Halloween elementary event of the year. Her dance card is full with the boyfriends from Dover Avenue School (and yes plural … she’s sassy and she knows this) My “B” is brave, she swallows hard. Rubs away the saltiness and tries to listen. I know she does this for my benefit. She’s braver than I.

I speak of how mommy’s love stays with babygirls forever .. And ever … And ever .. And ever.

I leak. Can’t help. One … two … three tears hit the pillow talk.

She has to know. God, little g or big, singular or plural, please help her believe. Tiny body heaving with tears, biting back the pain for the sake of a grown woman shows that she lives in the real. Have to make sure the she gets that she is my everything. Like the lunchtime love notes end .. “I love you more than the moon and the stars in the sky”. Hug, hard and long and sweet. Yes, she knows.

One last kiss on the blonde and the cheek. As I get up to leave …

Mommy?

Yes baby girl?

You know you’re my BFF right?

Always and forever angel.

Can you write me love notes for everyday I’m gone?

I’m all over it baby girl. You’re gonna be k. Mommy’s always with you.

I’m all about it mommy.

I know this baby.

Will you be all right without me mommy?

I will.

You can sleep with Hippy the Hippo if you need to mommy. Just to make you not lonely.

I’ll hug him tight with lots of kisses baby.

*blow kiss*

*catch*

*blow kiss*

*catch*

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.

This song perfectly describes my gratitude.