Lest you think I am starting the new year with a bad attitude, I’m here to tell you I woke up full of piss and vinegar. That could be because I am actually on steroids. I went to an orthopedic surgeon yesterday, convinced I had bone cancer, only to find that the radiating pain in my hip was probably caused by, “Years of doing what you love to do…”.

For example, hiking up hills, running on the beach and the wearing of four inch heals. That, and a lack of space between the round ball of my hip bone and the socket it fits in. I am a bit crooked. I have lost range of motion in “bound ankle pose”.  I am occasionally in enough pain to limp piteously.

When an alcoholic is in pain…

To put this in the proper perspective, I have not been to a doctor in ten years. The whole process is so rarefied, that even filling out the insurance forms seemed novel and “fun”. I asked questions. And I couldn’t help but think of the opioids lined up like fluffy, white rabbits with fangs, on a shelf somewhere. I was asked three times, even before I made it to the examining room, what I took for the pain.

My response, “Um, nothing? Maybe an Advil gelcap when it hurts really bad?” was met with looks of incredulity. It occurred to me that most people take pain medication when something hurts… As an alcoholic, it’s weird I suppose, that I have always avoided medicine of any kind. Other than the three bottles of elixir I used to drink per day, of course…

To the young man who took my vitals (excellent), I said, “I’m an alcoholic so I can’t take anything, you know, strong…” It felt like TMI, or at least like I should have had the proper name for what I couldn’t take. Narcotics? Opioids? Oxys? Corticosteroids? I’m an addiction professional for God’s sake!

To the x-ray technician I said, “I wish this would just go away…” She laughed, but I meant it. Miracles occur, why not me?

Bone Daddy…

I waited in the appointed room, with my x-rays pinned to the light box like a Damien Hirst exhibit. My hip and back bones looked fragile and lacy. It made me feel tenuous. As if a wrong step might snap my underpinning and I’d clatter to the ground like old pottery.

An hour and 1/2 later, I didn’t care anymore. I had studied my infrastructure ad nauseum, and sped read six Hello magazines (Megan Markle is divorced). I played with the models of joints. I thought about Tom Hager’s cyanotypes. I looked out of the sliver of window like a prisoner on the Bridge of Sighs… I just wanted out of there.

I mean, doesn’t everyone think of Thomas Hager’s cyanotypes while at the orthopedic surgeon’s office? Thomas Hager “Departure” cyanotype photograph.

When the great man arrived, I amused myself by thinking of him as Bone Daddy. He was actually super cool. And, get this, one of the first questions he asked was, “Has there been an alcohol problem in the past?” I nodded yes. “Are you an alcoholic?” Bingo…

Apparently my dicky hip could be caused by excessive alcohol consumption. The gift that keeps on giving, right?

I performed like a trained bear in one of those sad, roadside carnivals for Bone Daddy – over-anxious to please. I bent at the waist and touched the floor. I duck stepped in place. I lay on my back while he twisted my legs like pipe-cleaners. Does that hurt? How about that? 

Stoic or scared straight?

The doctor said I was “stoic”. That most people would have been shouting at him to stop when he pushed my knee to my chest even though it didn’t want to go there. But, I don’t feel stoic. And as with each new experience I have in recovery, I tried to process.

The bottom line, is that those of us in recovery must advocate for ourselves.

I have developed a condition that begged the alcohol question, but what if I had said, no? I volunteered the information about my alcoholism to anyone who would listen, but what if I didn’t? As it turns out, I left with a dose of Prednisone mild enough for “pregnant women.” And a prescription for an anti-inflammatory that “also coats the stomach”.

But I keep thinking about the question, “On a scale of 1 to 10 what is your level of pain?” What if I had said 10? Alcoholics are used to under-reporting. How many drinks a day? One? I am suggesting we also try to accept a bit of discomfort, when the fix is potentially addictive. And don’t be embarrassed by the TMI. 

In this case, too much information is a good thing…

E2E – I’m BACK…

The post An Alcoholic Walks Into a Pain Doc’s Office… first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

A few short years ago, the month of August would have been like every other month. I would have woken in a tangle of sheets, maybe bloody (certainly besmirched) with nausea rising in my throat and no memory of how I got the abrasions on my knees.

Read it and weep…

I’d reach over to the bedside table and drink the last dregs in the wineglass from the night before like a tonic. The curtains would be billowing, a sharp breeze off the Exuma Sound. And as I started another day in Paradise, I wouldn’t bother to look out of the window…

As patches of the previous evening came back, I’d get snippets of memory. It felt like the sickening strobe light – OFF ON OFF ON OFF ON – at the Happy People Bar in the village. A face here, a piece of a room there, swapped with a matt-black nothingness…

My past came up in the office yesterday. Jess said she could not imagine me in my active addiction. She said it made her sad to think of it. Weirdly, I can’t imagine it either. That time in my life, at the tail end of the maelstrom that was my late-stage alcoholism, feels like it happened to someone else.

Falling off a bar stool should hurt, right?

When I think about that crazy blonde who wore a wineglass like a wedding ring and drove a golf cart like a drunken banshee, I don’t even like her.  And think about what it does to your body to fall, dead weight, from the summit of a barstool. And what it must feel like to have a baker’s dozen of the local guys try to hoist you from a filthy cement floor.

It’s no wonder my Pucci kitten heals didn’t survive.  It’s a wonder I did.

There were good times living in The Bahamas. Such good times in fact, I cannot muster the nerve to return. Another island perhaps, but not Staniel Cay… not yet…

This summer I have been working…

Living in Michigan, is like living in Opposite World from The Bahamas. In fact, people work during the summer here and travel to warm climes in the winter. Speaking of working, I’ve been doing a lot of it.

And because I am proud of my accomplishments, and happy to be working at something I love to do, I wanted to share with you the new website I created (along with Jess, Monica, Kevin and Mindutopia) for Sanford House Addiction Treatment Centers.

We have gone from being a gender specific treatment facility for women, to adding treatment for men to the mix. It was necessary to rewrite the entire website before the opening (in the next two weeks in a series of events) of our newest restored historic mansion – Sanford House at John Street for Men. The website has been a long time coming. I began writing it in February, in a cabin in the Up North woods.

Walden Pond and all that…

When you think about it from the marketing perspective, a profound change in an organization makes for a host of problems, challenges, exigencies and opportunities. One must bow to the Gods of Google SEO… And what a fun brain teaser it is.

Now, I’m not saying that launching a new website and opening a 20 bed treatment facility is as relaxing as passing out on the deck of a boat on the Exuma Sound. And I am not sporting a tan this summer. But the confidence, pride and community I have developed during this process is so satisfying, I can honestly say I’d rather be doing this than sitting on a beach.

But I am thinking of taking one of those Michigan, fall vacays or booking a trip to Florida for the holidays now… All work and no play makes Mare a dull girl.

E2E – We are thinking of you every day…

The post What Did You Do On Your (Sober) Summer Vacation? first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

My four year sober anniversary came in like a lamb. I only remembered it, because Lauren sent me a text to congratulate me.  And other than being a mother (and for a while a wife) I haven’t maintained interest in many things for four years straight, so I should have been jazzed. Maybe the milestone fizzled because I drank as a hobby and later, as an avocation, for at least ten years. So by comparison it’s small potatoes.

Or maybe it’s that my sobriety has settled…

…and I’m not dealing with those punch-in-the-gut demands to DRINK anymore. So I don’t feel so full of my sober self at this milestone. It’s been six months since the last time a Bob Marley song or a walk through an airport or the smell of Aqua di Gio Pour Homme (don’t ask) has made me crave a tall, icy glass of chardonnay. Reading the words “tall, icy glass of chardonnay” doesn’t even make me salivate.

I don’t want to negate the degree of difficulty in getting and staying sober. It is the hardest thing I have ever done. There will always be a little piece of me that feels “missing”, but I am comfortable as a sober person now. And my life is so much better, I can’t even muster the resentment I used to wear like a cheap suit, because I couldn’t swill white wine anymore. I have learned there is always a worse case scenario, always something to be grateful for.

And I do not want to drink.

I work for an addiction treatment center, so I am around folks who are new to recovery all the livelong day. And at My office, in the marketing group, we are always researching the cutting edge treatments, methods and modalities available to increase the national averages for successful long-term recovery. I have found that you really have to want to get sober. No one can do it for you. I have also found you have to be ready to slay the dragon when the words, “I’m going to drink” pop into your head at inopportune times (and they will).

Four things I know for sure about getting and staying sober:

1. You Simply Must Find a Passion (If You Are Able – Get Physical)

I am convinced that long term sobriety must contain a passionate interest in something outside of oneself. For me it has been writing and hiking. Seriously. I am still saved regularly by a comment on this blog or a rigorous walk with friends (or alone). I have started a walking group, and I can see the positive influence an early morning, city trek can make on a day in treatment.

And if the passion is physical, I think it works even better for quelling the cravings. Statistics show that rigorous exercise and challenging yourself will increase your chances for long term recovery.  Fill your hands with something and get the heart pumping. You can mountain climb, but you can also walk dogs at a rescue shelter or garden. Or for a double whammy, become a docent at an art museum and take the stairs.

Passion is defined as “strong and barely controllable emotion”.  Yes. Find that.

2. We Are All in Control of Our Own Lives

I hear from people all the time who say things like, “It was my sister’s wedding. They made me drink.” Or they might say by way of excuse, “My cousin died,” or “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to that Kid Rock concert,, but what was I going to do? I couldn’t cancel…” This “excuse-thinking” is something I can relate to. Because I did it for years. I am reminded of the plastic bag in the movie American Beauty. Born on the winds as it dances with no direction of its own.

All my drinking stories used to begin with the words “I ended up”, as if I were not responsible for crawling out of a ditch after drunkenly crashing a golf cart. My bad? The fact is, we are not pushed around by capricious winds. We are in control of our own lives. And here’s the kicker – shit still happens, temptations abound even when you are sober.

3. Nature Has the Power to Save You (God is in His Heavens…)

One of the reasons I am so passionate about hiking, is that I am humbled by what I see in nature. There is something about standing alone on Guana Reserve beach before a storm that makes me feel large and small at the same time. In my mind, it is impossible to deny the existence of God, while rustling through the Michigan Up North in Autumn. 

In the excellent book by Interventionist Jeff Jay, Navigating Grace, he describes exactly that feeling during a solitary moment on the deck of his boat. He says, “I was standing on the deck, leaning back against the shrouds, looking up into the Milky Way, musing on the Universe. Here I lived in a tumble of stars, sharp and silent as the night, a thousand visible and a billion more I couldn’t make out… …And here I was, an infinitesimal being standing on a sailboat.” Beautiful.

Jeff (who is obviously farther up the ladder to heaven than me), says he can get that feeling on a city street too, or having coffee with a friend. But it is in a natural setting, in solitude when my path becomes clear and my troubles very small by comparison. I want you to have this feeling, no matter what you believe – this epiphany that is seeing the trees and the forest.

4. Find a Way to Be Accountable to Someone or Something

I am a card carrying loner and a natural at isolation. All my heavy boozing took place behind closed doors. A wise psychologist (who I summarily ignored and lied to at the time) once told me, “Marilyn, it is dangerous to not be accountable to something.” At the time I was newly divorced and swanning in the Exumas like I owned the place (I should have, for all the dough I threw around like a drunken sailor…). The truth is, I didn’t really listen to any good advice, and I was getting some from Kim and Dee…

I think this is where AA comes in. Or a church or another 12 step or recovery group. If you can find a community where you feel comfortable and will be missed if you don’t turn up, it is a positive move for your recovery. Create a schedule. Join a book club or a walking group.

It is also the place where mended family fences and work relationships can assist. I advise anyone who is serious about getting sober to tell every single person who is important to them they have quit drinking You would be surprised how resistant most newly sober people are to doing that…

I’m Still a Grasshopper…

In the grand scheme of sobriety, four years is not a long time. And time is certainly my sober buddy. After five years of sobriety I can feel a little more comfortable that the statistics are with me on maintaining my place on the wagon. And the longer I am sober, the smarter I feel. The more secure in my own health and wellness. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, but I have four.

I can’t say, “Whoopee! I got sober, found the love of my life, lost 20 pounds and I can do a cartwheel now!” But I can say, “I have found myself. I am where I am supposed to be, doing what I am supposed to be doing.”

And I don’t lie anymore. So that’s the truth.

XXXOOO, M

The post Four Years Sober – Four Things I Know For Sure first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

I told Christine that I had just experienced the “move from hell.” She said, “Your last move was ‘the move from hell’ wasn’t it?” Which is kind of true, but also made me feel like my horrible moves are somehow my fault. As if I don’t have the moxie to pack my own belongings, or the strength to navigate flights of narrow stairs while juggling breakables. Like I’m fabricating these hellish, move-a-day outcomes to make a better story.

 

I had this idea to get cute photos of me perched on boxes for this blog. That crazy Mare – recovery on the move again!  But after the fortieth trip up three flights of stairs to get my hanging clothes, I didn’t have the heart for it. So there are no pictures of before and after. Suffice to say I am relocated. And I look like I used to look when I stayed out late drinking and fell down a lot.

 

The offending daybed, now in a garage…

 

I had help…

And it’s not like I had to do it all myself. I had a moving company for the heaviest lifting. But I am sitting here with a body full of bruises and a head full of horror stories to tell. Come on, who has a 4 to 6 hour estimated move take 12 hours? Who has the smiling waif of a moving boy drop 500 pounds of wooden cabinet on the cement stairs and break it into pieces?

 

And who stage manages two enormous, decorative “key pieces” of furniture out of the bell tower of a refurbished church, only to have them founder on the impenetrable entranceway of the new apartment (ne historic home). And what does one do when the movers (after trying two stairways and twisting the furniture every which way but loose) look at you and say, “We don’t know what to tell you lady, but this won’t fit and we can’t put it back on the truck.” At that point, I was tired of sweet talking, cajoling and demanding. I just didn’t care. But, it’s not like putting a rickety end table at the curb for someone to dumpster dive.

 

These pieces of furniture are so large and unwieldy you need, well, a moving truck to move them. Luckily, my new landlord owns cattycorner mansions. I mustered enough charm to negotiate temporary space in his garage across the street, and got Niles and Clem to carry my behemoths to yet another location.

 

Unpacking the shot glass collection and all those flasks, again…

And why my friends do I keep packing and moving my shot glass collection? Hoisting box after box of brandy snifters and my Grandfather’s Waterford sherry flutes? And why can’t I just throw away those gag cocktail napkins, whiskey flasks and the wine glass that holds an entire bottle? I don’t think there’s any nostalgia for the days when I carried a wine goblet like an affectation. So why not toss the alcoholic’s accouterments?

 

I’d like to say this is my final move. That I will never move again. But the truth is, this move is just the next step in my resurrection/recovery (I have a fireplace!). There will be moves in the future and more stories to tell. But I need that neat, little book by the Asian woman who helps people all over the world organize their dross (keep/give away/throw away). I need to keep only those things that “bring me joy”.

 

Which reminds me, it does not bring me joy to schlep all those extra wooden hangers and the throw pillows that keep multiplying. And for God sake Marilyn, you will not be hosting a martini buffet anytime soon, so give away the martini glasses. Give them away. They do not bring you joy…

 

Today I’m not drinking, because I am moving again and keeping only those things that make me blissful…

How come you’re not drinking?

E2E I hope you are finding joy…

The post Moving the Shot Glass Collection Again… first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

In the end, the reason I decided to move was because of a shower curtain rod. There were lots of reasons I can list, now that the decision is made, for leaving my apartment. It was expensive. Especially given its (admittedly groovy) industrial, proletariat vibe. I never saw anyone in the halls and isolation is not good for my psyche. And with 40 foot ceilings, it was a challenge to heat in the long Michigan winters.

Thinking, thinking, thinking…

My lease is up this month and I have spent a fair amount of time  standing in the middle of the “great room” and thinking, moving is just too hard. I have big, heavy pieces of furniture and live three flights up. There’s a bookcase so unwieldy, the previous movers threatened to leave it on the landing or cut it in pieces to make it fit into the narrow, third floor hallway. And there is the tedium of changing my address. I have an orchid. A new case of water unpacked in the refrigerator…

Two weeks ago, my shower rod fell in the middle of the night. Again. It is something I have battled my entire tenure. I don’t know whether the Restoration Hardware, linen curtain is too heavy or the rod not quite long enough, but it has never fit properly. I’ve padded the gap with paper handtowels folded into discreet squares. I have augmented those patches with damp toilet paper (the sides of the shower are slippery). And just when I think I’ve got it beat, it crashes at the most inconvenient time. And I find myself stuffing more, less discrete, wads of scrap paper into the breach and cursing my fate. Why? Why God? I might whimper, at a particularly vulnerable moment.

I never thought to buy a new shower rod, or even complain to the landlord. They supplied it after all, and every time my handiwork crashes, it takes a small swath of paint off the bathroom wall so they should want to fix it. Anyway, the last collapse was the final straw (rod?). I folded up the shower curtain, propped the curtain rod against the wall and put a towel down on the floor to catch the splatter when I take a shower. And like a bolt from above I thought to myself, it’s time to move.

When Something Small Leads You to Decide Something BIG

This is typical of how I make big decisions.  All the good reasons for a life change might be clanging in stentorian obviousness and I will ignore them. Then, someone like Dee or David makes a simple comment, or a shower curtain falls and the way becomes clear.

Take how I got sober for example. After ten years of not-so-subtle prompts to quit – knocking out my teeth on a dive-bar countertop, getting divorced, falling off bar stools, the yen to drink in the morning, running short on cash, falling for another “inappropriate” boyfriend – I quit drinking for good, because my son Jonathan needed to be picked up from the airport. Go figure. He was getting in from England at midnight. Usually, I would have gotten my drinking in early, passed out, set an alarm and “sobered up” enough to go get him. When we got home I would have poured a nightcap.

Instead, I just didn’t drink. All day. And a bell went off – I thought to myself, this is enough – I’m done. For almost four years, that decision has stuck.

Is There a Moral to This Story Mare?

The moral to this story is that getting to the right decision is a good thing, no matter how long it takes. Better however, is the ability to read the signs. Change is never easy – especially when packing boxes or the pouring out of hooch is involved. But ignoring the BIG things is a form of self-punishment. In the NEW APARTMENT, I am going to be more aware of my surroundings, take better care of myself. Take note of the forewarnings.

And in the new apartment, if the faucet drips, or the shower curtain falls – boy oh boy, look out. I am loaded for self-care bear…

The post When the BIG Decision is Prompted By Something Small first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

It’s spring in Michigan and I work in one of those old buildings that have trouble shifting from winter steam heat to AC. And it’s been so gorgeous outside, that natural air is what I’m after. So, I tried to open my office window.  But, I work in one of those old buildings that have storm windows weighing a ton, and another set of windows that push out on dicky, metal thingies that do not hold. In other words, it is not easy to tap natural air.

Mother of Invention

I got creative and used my Alcoholics Anonymous big book as a window brace. The AA big book I have in my office is “for show” – the new, Warholesque, Pop version that weighs at least a pound. It was a gift from my friend Laura at my one year sober anniversary and I usually have it artfully displayed on my credenza.

I was sharing my marketing pearls with my intern Monica. She was facing the window and at some point, she furled her brow and said, “I think something just fell out of your window.” I turned around and the BIG book was gone.

Oh Oh. What if there was someone walking under the window? A gardener, or a visitor to one of the other offices? Someone minding their own business when a book, falling from three floors and gaining velocity, clobbers them on the head? What if, now that my life is going so well (and I have almost finished writing the new, Sanford House website), I kill someone and have to go to jail and become someone’s’ “bitch”? Maybe I can pretend it’s not mine. But what about the inscription? And everyone knows I like Pop art…

All those thoughts ran through my head as I walked the three feet to the window, pushed it open and looked down. No dead body, thank God. The fall didn’t even break the book’s binding. So I scampered down the stairs and reclaimed my possession before someone saw it as manna from heaven and snatched it for their library.

Things Happen…

We were all laughing about it later and Jess said, ” What if it had just fallen in front of someone? Right at their feet –  and they were thinking about quitting drinking? Would they think it was a sign?” This was a scenario I hadn’t thought about, but what if? I can imagine, after one of those horrible nights when I was shaky, still drunk and queasy, walking along and having an Alcoholics Anonymous tome fall out of the sky like a sign from God. Collapsing to my knees and shouting, “TELL IT! I will get sober today!”

I don’t want to make too much of a book falling from an office window. It was, after all, a careless mistake and not a Godsend. But it reminded me that unanticipated things happen – good and bad. And I suppose it’s how you look at it. You can dodge a falling book and sue the perp, or pick it up and get sober. You can get hit by a truck or a book out of nowhere. You can live to tell the tale.

Things happen. And sometimes they’re funny and thought provoking. Keep your eyes and ears open, look up occasionally and surround yourself with folks who get it. 

Because what doesn’t kill you (or someone else) makes you stronger for great blog fodder…

The post It’s a Sign From Above to Quit Drinking (or Duck)! first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

In The Bahamas they have an expression, “Things happen.” Those two little words seem to sum up the national psyche. They explain away all of life’s travails in the islands. The expression “things happen,” covers everything from the inappropriate behavior on a drunken night, to the irrevocable destruction of  force majeure. The words are uttered with an ironic raised eyebrow and a shrug. Kind of like the Midwestern expression “Don’t cry over spilt milk,” but with a lot more at stake…

The expression, “things happen…” goes hand in hand with another, hopeful Bahamian aphorism, “It’s all good.” I have always loved the way these words feel. Their lack of judgment – the hint that once you are in “the club”, it would take a lot to toss you out. The implied notion that life happens to all of us and stressing (or apologizing) too much is a waste of time.

Of course everything sounds better with a Bahamian accent.

It’s why my recovery affirmations usually include a caveat…

Anyway, I was going for a walk this morning and the sign below made me laugh out loud. The arrows pointing up as if the sky were about to fall.  And the lack of instructions about how to avoid deadly icicles raining down unexpectedly. Was I to turn around and go another way? Make a run for it? Wear a helmet? Scurry home and hide like Henny Penny? It made me think of The Bahamas…

“Why,” you may ask, would a sign about falling ice make me think of The (sunny) Bahamas? But, it did. It made me think of my recovery.  Because in life and in recovery, “things happen”. Sometimes it seems like the sky is falling in, even when it’s “all good” in the end. So, here I was standing on a street corner with my IPhone, taking a photo and laughing at this crazy thing called life. Because I relate so much to the unforeseen pitfall.

Things Happen…

One of things that was the hardest for me to UNDERSTAND, when I got sober, was that there were still going to be problems. Sobriety was not going to make everything okay. Loved ones might die, I might lose a job, fall out of love, be bored, not be able to pay the electric bill… My car might break down in Tifton Georgia on a Sunday.

And that is why, my friends, recovery is not just about stopping your drug of choice. It’s about filling the void with other options. Because when the inevitable problems happen, you must be ready to respond. And you can’t go back to the old days, when every one of life’s exigencies, joys or apathies caused you to guzzle a party bottle of white wine. You have to look at the problem with clear eyes and face it like a boss.

After I took my photos, I looked up. I was about to pass under a skywalk, stretching from one building to another across Michigan Avenue. As far as I could see, there was no ice to clobber me. I was safe. It’s been warm for a few days and it seemed the danger had melted away…

The sky was not falling…

(although a truck could have a flat tire, jump the curb and run me over when I’m not paying attention). But these days I have a lot less to worry about. And I am not in the business of fretting about things that are unlikely to happen. It is always prudent to look up when a sign tells you there is the potential of falling ice, because things do happen.

But when I look at my life now, it’s pretty much ALL GOOD…

The post The Sky is Falling! The Sky is Falling! (Things Happen, But It’s All Good…) first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

Try, try again…

Get ready – I’m about to use climbing mountains as a metaphor for quitting drinking again. I can’t help myself, it’s too symbolic. Especially since the first time I tried to climb the “big hill” on my vacation in Puerto Rico last week, I failed. Let me explain. The road to get to the big hill is a few miles long, with three rather high, sloping hills and many smaller rises along the way. There is a long dry stretch, where the wind rarely blows and it gets hot. The surface is loose sand, littered with small, ankle turning rocks. And the hill itself is steep and long, curling up a narrow, rocky path.

It’s not that hard, really…

Kim says it’s not really that tough. It’s not like you need carabineers. You don’t have to dangle from cliffs. But the walk is challenging and for some reason, it’s  immensely difficult for me. But I want to do it every time I go to Puerto Rico. Right now, in my mind’s eye, I can see it – every rock and curve through the green… Going up, up forever…

And the fact is, I am not as proud of myself for getting up the hill – finally – as I am for wanting to get up the hill the next day, after my failure.

Even though I pretty much almost died the first time I tried. Seriously, the top of my head was exploding and my legs were soggy noodles with thigh weights and I would make it a foot or two up the hill (mountain) and I could actually see birdies flying around my head like the cartoons… So I would have to sit down. Eventually, I turned back shamefaced without getting close to the top. I met up with Kim and was able to talk myself out of collapsing inconveniently in the wilderness (stumbling along like some old plow horse ready to be made into Elmer’s), but as soon as we hit the paved road I gave up. This was a first, but I sat down in the grass and I said, “I cannot do it. I can’t make it back.”

You’ve Done it Before – You Learned From the Experience…

But I’ve climbed that hill so many times before. I have memorized the route. So the next day, I was up and ready to try, try again.  And I made it – no sweat. And then I got an email from H who says she has been trying to quit drinking for two years now. She quits drinking for two weeks, a few days, a month, but always goes back to the bottle. H feels defeated. She said she “wants what I have – the freedom.”

And I thought, Holy crumb – let’s look at this positively – she’s quit a few times before, so H knows what it feels like to not drink. It’s like climbing a big, huge hill. And all is not lost with a relapse, or a failure. Especially if she learned something along the way. And what’s more, H is looking at quitting as freedom. Freedom, like standing at the top of a hill after a long climb with your arms in the air…

Mountains of Booze Bottles…

So, for H and everyone else out there who knows they have to quit drinking, but can’t seem to make it stick, let’s talk about the tools you need to quit for good. You don’t need carabineers – no hanging off the face of a cliff. But you do need gumption – the belief that you will not drink again. Ever. And you need friends who will tell you “it’s not that tough,” but who will walk down the hill with you (without judgment) when you are finding it way too hard to get to the top.

Yes, I am using that tired, mountain metaphor again. But it is so apt – taking the first step, knowing it’s going to be a challenge and going for it anyway. And if you’ve faltered before, if you didn’t make it, there is no crime in trying, trying , trying again until you get it right. You just keep thinking about the way it’s going to feel – the freedom of standing at the top – sweaty and tired and breathing hard, but there. With your arms in the air. Free.

The post What if Quitting Drinking Doesn’t Stick the First (Fifth, Tenth) Time You Try? first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

Did anyone else see a befuddled Warren Beatty ignoring his better judgment last night at the Oscars? The entire world watched as he looked down at the red envelope, seemed confused, looked to a clueless audience for divine counsel and relinquished the decision to reveal the winner of the “Best Picture” award to Faye Dunaway.  Faye, with complete confidence (which was what Warren was desperately seeking), skimmed the card, skipped over the words “Emma Stone” and announced the only thing left that made sense, “La La Land!” Which was wrong. Moonlight was the actual winner…

After that, there was pandemonium on stage as the wrong people gave acceptance speeches and the right folks sat in their seats. Flushed clerks rushed in from backstage. Out of the kerfuffle came a voice of reason, and while we all watched with hands over our mouths, La La Land producer Jordon Horowitz let the Moonlight cast and crew know they had won. It was not a joke. There was a moment when everyone was on stage. The correct people took the Oscars out of the hands of the duped apologetically.  Warren stood in the middle of the fray with a ghastly smile. The host, Jimmy Kimmel, took full responsibility. And a wrong was righted. Sort of.

What’s done is done…

I’m not sure why I am feeling like it’s Warren Beatty’s fault. I mean what about Price Waterhouse, with that suitcase their snooty representative sports, chained to his arm? As if he’d sooner lose a limb than allow the envelopes with the indisputable winners of the Oscars to fall into the wrong hands. As if PwC staff are incapable of human error. What about Faye Dunaway, who vaporized after announcing the wrong winner?

But why, I wonder, in a rather loose Academy Awards, where it would have been cool to say, “Um, this envelope seems to contain results we already gave out…” did an old trooper like Mr. Beatty freeze? I call it “ignoring your better judgment”. Something alcoholics know all about. You could see it on his face. A desperate need to understand, to make things right and then – against his gut – capitulation. Hoping for the best, even though he knew it was going to end badly.

The whole thing reminds me of you when you were drinking…

Kim called me this morning and she said the whole mess reminded her of something I would have done when I was drinking. And she’s right. But I probably wouldn’t have cared. Or remembered. And I would have disappeared long before old Faye hightailed it into the safety of the wings.  Now that I’m sober (and after Kim reminded me of what a lout I used to be), I thought about the lessons that could be learned from last night’s Oscar debacle. Good advice for those who are new to sobriety. Good advice for all of us.

What I Learned from Warren Beatty last night:

1. Do Not Ignore Your Better Judgment: Come on – we learned this in self defense class – if it feels weird, wrong or icky – it is. Look behind you.
2. Have a Contingency Plan: Do not assume that everything is going to go according to plan “A”.  If you have unearthed yourself from obscurity to give an award in front of 7 zillion people, double and triple check what to do in case of an emergency.
3. Take Responsibility: There were a few people who stood there and took it like troopers last night. Humor and good grace are always helpful in difficult situations. And so is a partner who pulls her weight…
4. Apologize: It was really unfair to the Moonlight folks to win the highest award in such a shabby way. They deserved a heart felt apology from everyone involved.
5. What’s Done is Done: If disaster befalls, even after following the four steps above, let it go. (And do not, under any circumstances, look at your Twitter account).

The post Ignoring Your Better Judgment or What’s Done is Done, Warren… first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.

In the movie La La Land, there is a “what could have been” scene.  And by the time you get there, you are so enthralled with the connection between the main characters, you can’t help but hope the real outcome is some cheesy, cinematic trick. A dream sequence, perhaps? Anything, so the beloved couple really does give up their grandest, creative dreams and choose each other, have a child and live happily ever after.

Playing it Forward…

The brilliance of La La Land is in the melancholy. Sandwiched between the high kicking, brightly colored cheerfulness, is a slice of the sacrifices we all make in life. If you are like me, you leave the theater haunted by the fact, things don’t always turn out as you expect or want. And even when you long for a happy ending, you’re smart enough (or in my case cynical enough) to continue to play “what could have been” to its natural conclusion.

We alcoholics are taught to do that.

To use another cinematic example, I am the only person on the planet who watched the ending of Pretty Woman and said, “Oh come on! That relationship will never last.” It’s nice to think they would ride off into the future, happily forgetting how she used to make her living. But after a while, he’d begin to fixate on those boots. And when she fist pumped and shouted, “Woof, woof!” at yet another polo match, it would become less cute. He would start working the kind of hours he used to work. (And that’s what had him hiring an escort for unfettered sex in the first place, right?)

Where am I Going with This?

I am definitely not at the stage where I am thankful for my alcoholism. But I am no longer resentful, either. And I nip those nostalgic, “what could have been” drinking memories in the bud, whenever they pop up. What if I just drank in a fun way and didn’t fall down as much? Couldn’t I time travel back to the tropics, sip a discrete glass of wine or ten and not become addicted? And most dangerous, What if I could go back to the year 2004 and start all over again, knowing what I know now?

I am not thankful for my alcoholism. Not at all. However, I know the bewildering steps that got me here (going every which way like an Escher graphic) cannot be changed.  So what is the point of rewinding? Life is not a film, but the really great movies don’t give false hopes about “happily ever after” either. We make our indelible choices and we get bounced around in God’s plan and sometimes, shit just happens.

For the worse. For the better…

The post What Could Have Been. Don’t Go There, My Sober Friends first appeared on Waking Up The Ghost - Alcohol Recovery.