a man stacked with integrity

this post will not be about me and my problems. not today.

i strive to keep this as anonymous as possible, even though from time to time i'll post a link up for my facebook friends.
you and i know each other on a strange level. my deepest of everything, yet we could pass each other in the streets without a thought. i like it that way.
no pictures of myself or my family, was my plan upon starting this. i need to break that right now.

my gramps passed away April 29th, a little bit past midnight, with my aunt and i holding his hand and petting his beautiful white hair.
 for being 92, he had really thick hair. i got that from him.  i hope i get that beautiful silver everyone on that side seems to have after 50.
he looked frail. he looked like he was dying. he looked like he was ready to see his wife and parents and siblings and family and friends on that other side we struggle to know about.

he was a teacher and would definitely point out my lack of capitalization and run on sentences. im really terrible at punctuation. sorry, grandpa.

he saw terrible things in WW2. he barely made it out alive. it didn't crush his spirit, he just never talked about it, and he didn't need to. they played taps at the funeral.
the man never complained. ever. he took life in stride.
everyone loved him.
when word got around the town he and my grandma lived in, the abundance of cakes and cookies and casseroles and cards were just a little, tangible testament to that. small town sweet gestures.

my grandma was his world, and the dynamic they shared is something i take into my own relationship. they were each others sweeties.
 i know in my heart as my grandma was dying she tried to hold on for him. she took weeks after her stroke of slowly fading away. we kept her comfortable, but she was adamant that we would not try to prolong her life in any way. DNR. they had it all planned out for us. thank you.

watching him watch her go was one of the most heartbreaking experiences in my life.
he would forget that she was gone, and ask when she was coming back, and we'd need to relive that all over again. see his face.
they are together again, and that makes this slightly more comforting.

he passed away a little over 4 hrs after my dad and i got off the plane and rushed to his side. he held on for us.

the man had a way with a garden- greenest thumb ever. his backyard was always pruned and lush. he had a cherry tree when they lived out west that i loved to gobble away on until i was stained red, my stomach aching.

 my aunt explained it perfectly- "he was a man stacked with integrity".
 he was.
im going to miss his voice. he had a very unique one.

occasionally he'd ask, "how old am i??" and when told he was 92 he'd respond "oh...that's old enough"

it was old enough.
i'll miss you.
i love you.

all apologies

it's been a month and a 1/2 since i've written on this blog.

it's currently 232 days of sobriety.
there were a few moments where i felt jarred, that maybe i wasn't as solid as i thought. but i made it through. everything is strengthened by it.

there was just so much going on, in my head and in real life.
it's my 1st inclination to say "im bad at this". im bad at what i set out to do. i apparently can't commit to writing. taking that 10 minutes out of my day to have a creative release of my pent up thoughts. maybe nothing has changed, it just wears a new set of clothes.

but....im going to say: "im good at this". i have been going about things in such a way where i can't put aside that time. i don't want to lock myself to a screen, because in all honesty? this doesn't take 10 minutes.
sigh,
 i just realized that number is something my brain made up to make myself feel bad. i know i could omit that fleeting thought, but im just gonna let it sit there. proof. minutes, good one.
 i haven't been allowing my thoughts to turn on me as much as they used to, and it's making that small part of me pissed. the part that hates me. the part that tells me im not good enough.
 old habits die very, very hard.
 i spend a long time writing these entries. it's so hard to fully encapsulate emotions and situations i've never been confronted with. i try my damned best to explain. it may be a long time in between, but it's my all. i owe that to myself if anything.
 collect my thoughts and dump them out when it fills to the brim, that's how things seem to be naturally occurring.
i need to go with it. i cant control everything like i want to.

Part one: a catch up:
march turned out to be an incredibly hard month. harder than the month i had when i first started writing online, the month my roots planted. the month my skin became tough.
march was a wind that pulled on those roots. a wind that stung my cheeks.

i left off with my 6 month coin. still shiny, still filled with the good vibes of my group members ju-ju, and feeling new. i have all of them in a small leather coin bag. 30, 60, 90, 6 month, and also my rehab graduation coin and my outpatient graduation coin (because that happened, to be explained in a minute) all jingling away like im from some distant time. i earned these coins. blood, sweat and tears.
 a little over 2 months until i add another to that bag, a louder jingle. she's doing it.

when i collect my 1 year, im going to put them all in a frame. they make frames with mats especially catering to these things, because im not the only proud one.

a few days after that coin was the 7 year "anniversary" of almost dying due to my use. a major accident. i was left severely injured. flown away via helicopter to someone who could save me. surgeries for years to try and fix the damage. 7 years later, and i'm not done yet. it still haunts me. the surgeries that are left are now elective, but im sick of being cut open. i miss my old face. the dr's tried, and did a good job. but no one knows your face quite like yourself. yet another way it haunts me.
all i wanted to do was go home, get to my room in the basement, and nap it off.
i fell and an angel caught me.
 i like to think it was my grandfather. he died when i was young, and i know, deep down i know, he tries to make up for all he's missed. he regrets not getting to know me.
he came to me in dreams while i tried to sleep on the hard mattress in rehab. i bought a nice goose down blanket for a shred of comfort, but it barely worked. i brought a plant to add some cheer to my room, but on the day i was released i accidentally ripped that philodendron out of it's pot, disconnecting the vines from their roots. i try not to read in to that.
 my grandpa, who passed away when i was 5 or 6, told me i could do it, that he'd be there. he gave me my 1st shred of hope.
i was told that the feelings were so vivid because my brain was in the beginning stages of re-wiring itself from 14 years of abuse, 10 of those heavy use. nothing more. just my brain recovering. my comfort merely a byproduct.
thank you for informing me of that.

fuck you.


i drink like he did. i get angry like he did.
both sides of my family have members with hollow legs. almost like i was born destined to be this way.
it was the 1st time i had march 6th pass without me "celebrating" the fact i was still alive.
with a clear head, i realize now how backwards it is to celebrate in the manner that got you in the mess in the 1st place.
it was another way i told myself i was fine. another reason to drink. a seemingly logical disguise to get completely obliterated and have no one question it.
there were times over that 7 years, probably more than i'm allowing myself to recognize, where i wish i had passed on. a person who doesn't care anymore deserves that kind of ending.
i'm embracing the fact that i just wasn't ready, and i need to find out why.
i need to go with it.

Part two: a major change:

in the midst of this everything, a more tangible change was occurring.
 i was packing my things away- it's was time for a move, in so many ways. just a shedding of a former life.
almost 2,000 miles away from a place that i loved (and will always love) so dearly i have a tattoo of the area code on my arm.
and as freeing as it felt, and that i knew it would be, a part of my heart was broken. actually, i don't even know how to describe it. i tried. i really tried to make it work there.
i packed up boots that stumbled home so many times. one pair had dried puke on them, out of sight out of mind. that's disgusting.
my wedding dress, covered in dribbles of jagermeister and reeking of cigarettes, because only my vows were sacred that day.
mopping up a pool of blood from the time i cut my foot open on broken glass. glass that i broke, and i don't remember how, and who knows why. i'd call them my war wounds, jokingly. the O+ blood blended into the dark wood, so it was out of sight out of mind. that's disgusting.
vacuuming out the corner of our room where i had sat down surrounded by old pictures and sobbed. i would bang my head against the wall. hard. wake up with another war wound. put on makeup and head to work, make sure to brush my teeth 2-3 times and cross my fingers no one would be the wiser.

it's embarrassing to see written out.

i need to go with it.

when everything was packed tightly into my small car, and the moving van was arranged like the ultimate game of tetris, i drove away from that house and i didn't cry. i said goodbye and headed in the direction of a new chapter.
i misted up when i saw the skyline in my rear view mirror. i remember the day i 1st moved to the city, and how i felt seeing that view, knowing this was not a visit but my home. a packed up car, misty eyes,
parallel universes.

i didn't play any music, or listen to talk radio like i normally do. my standard company for long drives.
it was time to be with my thoughts. to process these things that were finally happening- a date that had been circled on my calendar for so long. the boxes of a former life packed away to be opened in a different state like underwhelming christmas presents.
my thoughts that once scared me. keeping me company.

i'll go in to the journey and the now's later. it's sunny here where i live, and laying out in the sun during april is an option, unlike back home. because that place will always be the original home.
it's not because im bad at this. im good at this.

things i didn't deserve part 1

well, here it is. 1/2 way to the 1st year of the new life i lead.
the life i always wanted, but didn't know how to get it. wait....more like, the life i thought was boring and i never wanted in a million years. bleh. there's no fun in any of that, live fast and leave a good looking corpse. fuck yeah, man.
hold on, maybe.....the life i didn't think i could have so didn't even try? or perhaps, the life i didn't know how to have, but secretly knew i wanted, so did my best to make it look that way. i could have my cake (booze) and eat (drink) it too.
it's one of those..all of those, i don't know.

sober for 6 months, which has actually felt like years, not gonna lie. the amount of things, good and bad, 6 months has thrown at me. i've been told, after a few years of sobriety, these things no longer haunt the forefront of your mind, the changes. the "sober you" vs "drunk you". i can't wait. that's my reminder- you're still very new at this. don't get cocky,
we're never out of the woods. the ground isn't quite even. your tent is barely built.  the rain is only beginning to pass. your sleeping bag won't be wet forever. you'll learn to survive this and like it.

the fact that i keep count.
every day, i start my mornings saying "thank you", and add to my tally. the days i have earned.  trying in vain to get back the time i lost. the tally marks i took away, laughing maniacally. crying. not remembering.
182 days.
it's this really awesome, awesome feeling of accomplishment, because well- it is. when i process my thoughts, i realize that deep down...i honestly thought i'd be dead before i ever got here. if you think that's dramatic, be grateful you don't feel what i feel. 182 days of consistent freedom. the things we keep to ourselves. the things that are frightening to hear out loud, the feel of my mouth and my tongue calling me out.
i never wanted to be like this. bring myself to a time where i'd need to count days, congratulate myself on the number 182. no little girl says they want to be a drunk when they grow up.

i didn't know how to get to this point. i didn't want to get to this point. i didn't think i deserved getting to this point.
it's one of those..all of those, i don't know.

they say when you become a mother, you become someone else. selfless. it's your everything.
im pretty sure even something like pregnancy wouldn't have stopped my runaway train. i don't care if you shake your head at me. "no, no. she doesn't know how it is. it's different"
no, no. you don't know how it is. it's different.
alcohol was my baby. i nursed it. protected it. it cried and i ran to it.
it was my everything. i became someone else. it convinced me i was selfless.
the things we keep to ourselves, the things we are frightened to hear out loud.
my mouth, my tongue, calling me out.
it's wrong to admit you don't give a shit. normal people don't think those things. how can you think like that?
years of not being in control of my brain.
children crying a trigger.
someday, this will only be a cautionary tale. i can't wait to wipe sticky little fingers, and hear my new name in a tiny voice. apologize in my head for the things i could have done. every fiber of my being sighing with relief that we'll never need to find out if i was right or not. if it was truly different for me.

i spent my day in the company of people in recovery, who i've gotten to know on a deep level. the demons that haunt us must be friends like we all are.
 i spent it with someone who has 25 years of sobriety under their belt, a reminder i can be that too,  i will be that, too. the number and the wisdom. that deep level of understanding.
survival skills, a tent, a dry sleeping bag.
 i am 100% convinced i would not have achieved this level of sobriety if i had never met any of these people. i've never been more certain.
i didn't know how to actually believe in myself, only say that i did. i needed constant reassurance i wasn't lying like i had for years. these people gave it to me when i couldn't. didn't know how. didn't want to. was too broken and close to not caring.
it's one of those... all of those, i don't know.

eating pizza. playing with my dogs, and trying to pet my moody cat. talking to a few friends who understand the true depths of this accomplishment. house of cards back to back to back,  my favorite blanket and pillow, sparkling water with lemon. my phone on silent. a long grandpa nap.
it's one of those..all of those...i know this time.
a perfect way to spend today.

Occam's razor

happy valentine's day! i hope you're finding a little extra love shining down upon you today, whether it be from a significant other, a cat kneading on your stomach purring, or a happy dog licking your face. a call, a card, a pat on the back. indulging in some ice cream (or the whole pint, i won't tell), curled up on the couch by yourself, watching the rom-com you kinda hate that you like so much. i think that sounds awesome.
today is what you make it, even if all you make of it is that it's just another day.

i haven't written in a long time. at points it seemed like there was just simply nothing to write about, and at others it was so unbearably much that i couldn't even put it in to words. or, i didn't want to.
i've had enough time to think.

it's the prime time for me to vent about love, and not on the frustrations that come with a partnership, or the process of finding one. why it is so. hard. to look at yourself objectively, and love yourself anyways? why do we give anyone but ourselves the upper hand sometimes? im not necessarily posing that question, being like "AND NOW, HERE'S THE ANSWER!" if i knew, i wouldn't be an alcoholic in treatment. none of this would exist.
 i've been hating myself for as long as i can remember, and only recently have i realized it.... but why?? what created the measure that caused me to judge myself so harshly? i want to find out and punch it in the face, but i think that's just how life's mysteries work.
sobriety is the 1st step to finding that out, im sure of it. im holding on to that, tightly.

i like to think im smart and funny. at my core, i try to be kind and thoughtful. im creative, and i usually have awesome hair. i've visited lots of cool places, and have dedicated myself to several passions. i like to think i have good taste (but, don't we all? haha) and i have a ton of random interests that i thoroughly enjoy. if you ever need to know anything in depth about the sumarian culture and their relationship with the annunaki, or want to talk about victorian era surgical procedures, im your lady.
but it wasn't good enough.
none of anything i ever did, or ever liked, or pursued, or gained, or earned, amounted to shit- for yeeeeeears- in my brain. i was forever the kid in 7th grade getting picked last for gym class. i was the insults my boyfriend told me. i was the girl who tried and failed, and just decided to quit so she'd never have to feel that way again. i was merely all of my life's shortcomings arranged into the shape of a woman, and i lubricated her words and movements with whatever i could get my hands on. it usually takes more than one person to put on a play.

 there were many times that i surrounded myself with people who felt the same way about themselves, so i could be in good company. like this was actually a normal way to feel. i could compare myself and in some way justify my misdeeds. "oh my god, so-and-so got trashed last night, and totally peed their pants! they were such a mess!" ha, well. i sure didn't do that, therefore, i totally have my shit together and am way better at life. go me!! LOOK AT HOW GOOD I AM TO MYSELF!!! heaven forbid the time came where i was the pee pants. then it would flip. i would lean on people who were going "shoosh, i totally have my shit together. at least im not like her", and then i'd be consoled with fake praise, which raised their spirits higher, falsely, which re-assured me, falsely, and then we all got to go on our merry little ways feeling better about ourselves without doing any real work besides secretly being awful.  if you do that long enough, you trick yourself into thinking you're truly a well meaning individual.

when someone speaks openly of being the "better" person, it usually means the opposite. good people just do good deeds, and don't feel the need to tell everyone. it's not that you wanted to do something for the sake of it, but that you wanted people to know you did it. to show how truly likable you are, because you can hide the not-so-likable intentions. im learning this, and it's slowly becoming less difficult to put into practice. i was the queen of facebook statuses that screamed "tell me: what a good job im doing!/how great i am!/how jealous you are of me!/how fun i am!/how pretty am!/ how nice i am!" what a wonderful life i live. because, in those empty comments sent by people who could only see me at the highly edited and best version of myself, only then could i feel consistent validation. the empty spot that was too painful for me to deal with on my own was spackled over by thin praise, and i took it and ran because at least it was something other than my own thoughts.

whatever people said i was, i believed. my world would collapse upon any word of criticism. things were either good or bad. the idea of it being something in between- or maybe, it's just nothing at all!!- crippled me with anxiety. i was always trying to figure out people's ulterior motives, but now i realize that most of the time, it probably wasn't an issue. i was the only person who had those. i put an exhausting amount of effort into getting people to say the things i wanted to hear.
I COULDN'T CONTROL ANYTHING OR ANYONE, and it freaked me the fuck out.


the worst part about getting better is how hard it is. it's so, so, so hard to do the right thing for yourself. when people look at addiction, at face value, it's the most ridiculous sounding shit in the world. oh, cool- not only do i live with constant shame and embarrassment, i'm literally lying my way through life to get whatever i can in order to keep up with this game of....i don't even know what, anymore. let me hurt my loved ones and lose friends so i can go and do things i can't remember. so i can cry alone, not know up from down. i want to financially ruin myself, and go morally bankrupt. i want my body to fail, so slowly and painfully, that killing myself seems like the most compassionate choice. i want to hate myself so deeply, i no longer exist.
and then you do everything all over again, despite that.

why the hell would you possibly want that for yourself? 

because it's the momentum of it all. there's no time to look at things you don't want to look at. you're not obligated to feel the emotions that otherwise control you completely.

when you live your life in a blur, the moment it stops is so fucking scary. at least it was for me. it was like going from a dark room out onto a sunny porch- you can barely see. it's uncomfortable.
it's hard to process how self involved you were when you were using, and want to keep going. it's almost like you need to lie to yourself in order to feel like you deserve something different than what you were doing. we're good at lying! use it to your benefit, because sooner or later, that lie becomes reality: you are worth it.

in 2 weeks i will be 6 months sober. i can't even believe all the changes that have already happened, in not even a year. but.... i have over a decade's worth of drunken housekeeping to attend to. here are some lessons i have learned thus far (and maybe they will resonate and pertain to you too):

when you start to make positive changes in your life, don't be surprised if people aren't excited for you, or if they show less support than you anticipated. it's the most heartbreaking and confusing thing i've had to deal with, and totally falls back into the category of: is it even worth it? yes. it is.
people will act like what you're doing is selfish, and in a way it is, but- it's finally the right kind of selfish. learn how it feels, that difference. there's the selfish that weighs on your conscious so you drink yourself into oblivion, and there's the selfish that leaves you comfortable and relieved. the right version of selfish doesn't give you a pounding headache and awful sweats. it doesn't empty your bank account.
be selfish.

and if others act like what you're doing is easy, these major life changes and self realizations, just let them believe that. be almost happy for them, that they can't possibly understand. there's no use in wasting your time trying to explain to someone who doesn't want to listen.
one of the few things i heard in treatment that i keep close-  this problem didn't happen overnight, so why would it take that long to fix? some people won't understand that, and remember- they don't need to.  the most important part is that you do. 

i'll probably touch more on this in a different entry, but it's really straddling the line of what i blabbed on about just now- so, a few words in regards to other people's perceptions.
there are some people who will criticize you no matter what you do, and i wasn't able to conceive of the level of scrutiny i would potentially be subjecting myself to by posting my thoughts online, albeit anonymously. some will feel like they are allowed to tear you apart, or will search for the vaguest form of justification in order to do so. it didn't happen a lot, but just enough to have some power over my emotions for a short amount of time.
our undeserved entitlement.
thank god you're not like me. that you have your shit together. you are well meaning. truly likable.
ultimately, if you strip it down completely-  im not really saying anything new. im not the 1st person on the planet to get sober. this isn't the 1st time someone has gone through the aches and pains of doing this. but, guess what?
this is the 1st time for me.
 you don't have to read this. if you don't like what im doing, exercise your ability to move past my issues and on to yours. if you have nothing better to do than openly judge me for pouring my heart out, maybe you should find a hobby, or hey! you can start your own blog! one where you talk about anything you want, or write in any style you choose, because it belongs to you!  this is what's helpful for me, and judging from the amount of responses i've received, it's helpful for others too. this is not "recovery for dummies", or a professed self help blog. im not claiming to be a sage. all it is, and all i want it to be, is me writing about the good, the bad and the ugly of what i'm going through, and  finding some people who feel the same way in the process, or at the very least want to understand. im figuring this out, in front of everyone.
the things people feel they can say from the security of their computer screen is ridiculous.

 i really like to write. i used to do it all the time, and then it fell to the wayside. it's hard to do when your eyes are crossing (i mean, i definitely tried, but can i read it? ummmmm.. do you have a rosetta stone?) it feels good to have a long lost, much loved outlet back.
i ask you, if you are to extend such a level of criticism my way- what could you be doing with your time to possibly make your life a little better?

judge me not for my process, but for how many delicious chocolates im about to cram into my mouth, ok?