Hi!

You know when you start and then save a new Word document, Word wants to name the file after the first few words in the doc? Well, when I started this blog entry and then saved it, Word wanted to save the file as, “When I tell myself that I can”, when the full thought was actually, “When I tell myself that I can’t survive rejection”. O the irony! And I went on with my blog…”I have survived it in the past. And am in better place because of it”. Blah blah blah. I guess they’re both kind of pep talks to myself – one suggesting that I can take a leap of faith and accomplish anything, and the other suggesting that I can take a leap of faith and make an inelegant crash landing but survive anything. Both pep talks are profoundly annoying, especially when I am feeling the way I am feeling right now – which is like a deflated clown. I am suffering the clear-as-mud love that, despite it’s muddiness, I know in my very marrow is a love so certain, so forever. Each facet of his being, whether it physical or spiritual, was an ensnarement from which there was no release. But I did not wish release. I wished to stay entrapped forever with him for all eternity, our hearts, always as one. LOL! I totally stole that from “sappy love poems” courtesy of a Google search. Love poems deeply embarrass me. They remind me of the cringe-inducing gems written by my past emo boyfriends, probably in my eyeliner. I’m a much bigger fan of psychotic emails. More on that later.

She’ll be coming ‘round Sheh Nay-Nay’s Recovery Mountain when she comes! She’ll be coming ‘round Sheh Nay-Nay’s Recovery Mountain when she comes! She’ll be coming ‘round the mountain, coming ‘round the mountain… . It occurred to me that I am presently coming ‘round that harsh and unpleasant part of the mountain again, Lovesick Cliff. My first time ‘round these here parts was a holy nightmare. My very first few blog posts dramatically detail it actually – remember CM? Me neither, really. Ha ha. I just mean that we’re as close now as we were then, which was never even remotely close. He’s not in my life, my heart, or my thoughts at all, no hard feelings. There was truly no love lost. What weren’t lost but very gained in that relationship were, although très tragique at the time, invaluable lessons in love and respect. Kind of like a “Don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone” relationship, like the relationship you have with a urinary tract infection. Godspeed.

I don’t know if I am a hopeless fruitcake. I know some of you think you can answer that for me, but unless you’re a trained professional, back off, bitches. I have said this before – I don’t know if I am nuts or if I am just terminally sentimental. My therapist says it doesn’t matter because, for me, they’re interchangeable. When I was Googling “sappy love poems”, I found this: “People who are sensible about love are incapable of it” (Douglas Yates). Lovely, isn’t it? So, does that mean that the more senseless you are, the more capacity for love you have? Yeah, that’s wishful thinking. But if it were true, I know a few people who fit that bill. (Kiss kiss to you, Bambie! And me, too, of course). Last week, I took an impossible leap of faith into love and neither accomplished anything nor inelegantly crash landed. I am not writing this blog from somewhere over the rainbow, nor did the life-and-love-affirming little butterflies in my stomach get the shit kicked out of them. I need to be a little vague to protect the sexy.. I mean the innocent… but I do have a tale to tell of love and recovery. This lesson is invaluable and dear to me, as is this person. I talked to Nelissa a few days after that impossible leap and was terribly upset, heartbroken only by the tiny but powerful alcoholic voices in my head that scream “you’re worthless” in a million cruel ways, especially when I am feeling vulnerable, which is like, always. Nothing actually happened that I should have been upset about – but tell that to the vicious, and quite creative, voices in my brain. Anyway, Little Miss Optimistic let me cry, then lovingly pointed out all the positive things that surrounded the leap, and then told me to write a gratitude list about it. She’s so annoying.

In an attempt to illustrate that, despite the internal voices’ taunts, I have grown to trust my emotions a little bit, and am even learning how to express them without fear of Death by Rejection, I am going to share an email I wrote during the WORST emotional crisis of earlier sobriety. I’ll then share my gratitude list, which I’m sure is going to be super sugary, so consider this your barf bag alert.

THEN: My Virgin Voyage ‘round Recovery Mountain, Adventures on Lovesick Cliff

This is the email I sent Nelissa in March that actually inspired the creation of this blog. I was at the tail-end of my brief relationship with CM. Nelissa asked me a simple question: Did I see him that day, and yes, I did see him for a couple of hours. The following email details my experience of those couple of hours. Names changed, again to protect the innocent, and edited for content because my mother reads this.

“I did see CM today. We made plans for today yesterday but when I texted him to ask when I should head over, he said he was sick. It sent me into a complete tailspin. Even my body is screaming for me to bow out of this ill-advised romantic endeavor. I was so excited all day to see him, (I haven’t seen him in one week but I feel like it has been six years and like we’re soul mates in a passionate endless timeless love affair) that when I got his text that he was sick, I basically went numb. I was SO <insert every inappropriate emotion imaginable> that my soul shut down. I felt sick to my stomach and violent  – I was so angry that he was being so selfish and cavalier about seeing me, or not seeing me, especially after the screwy conversation I tried to have with him YESTERDAY about what he wants in this relationship and how I’d like to see him more often. I knew I was being a complete lunatic, so instead was all, “ooooh nooooooooos hunny sweetie! Can I get you soup?” trying to find a way to see him without sounding as pathetic as I was feeling. After about an hour or so of friendly texts (all the while I’m a seething psycho foaming at the mouth), he invited me over and voila! All’s right with the world – I can ignore the fact that I nearly had an actual literal broken heart that could have required immediate medical attention. Blah blah. Went to his house, poor sweetheart is actually sick and he kept falling asleep from the cold meds. Blah blah. He falls asleep with his every limb wrapped around me, as always, like we are two puzzle pieces, perfectly matched. But when he gets up a little later, I convince myself he is using me and thinks I am horrible and boring and ugly but since I am always readily available, he’s just pretending I am someone else when we hang out. I contain the rage – how DARE he treat me this way, the womanizing, egomaniacal motherfucker doesn’t see how good he has it with me, how happy I can make him, and how devoted I would be (not to mention the bl<censored>bs) — and this is ME we’re talking about — I hate everyone but he is so special and gorgeous, how the fuck can he take this and me for granted – shallow ASSHOLE!!! I get ready to leave, still containing my apocalyptic fury. He gets his shoes and coat, and kind of shuffles in his cold meds stupor… and why the FUCK is he being so distant and mopey?!!! I leave, am devastated and furious, meet “Helen of Toy” for a movie, tell her very casually I’m having boy problems, and then he texts me “Thanks for coming over, cutie. That was sweet of you to visit the infirm 🙂  “. And voila! All’s right with the world. I can ignore the fact that if Massachusetts didn’t require psych background checks before selling firearms, I’d be in lock-down awaiting arraignment on a homicide charge right now instead of sending you an email. It seriously is a wonder that I honestly have not had a nervous breakdown. Please trust that I am completely aware of how deranged, unhealthy, delusional, unfair (to both me and him), risky, distracting, and generally fucked up my thinking is — usually, yes, but right now specifically to CM. I need to walk away – I know this, I truly do. My sanity, dignity, self-respect, sobriety, and maybe any future friendship I could have with sweet (though so unaware of the depth of my craziness) CM.. although I really doubt any relationship with him would be wise. What I am trying to say is this: you texted that you thought I said that I didn’t see CM because he was sick, and no, I did see him”.

I don’t really think I have anything to say about that email – I think it kind of speaks for itself. In fairness to myself, it’s probably more of a tribute to temporary insanity than a reflection of my general disposition at that time, but it certainly reflects that my heart was not connected to my sensibilities’ working parts. At all.

NOW: Gratitude for Recovery Mountain, Adventures on Lovesick Cliff

I am grateful:
* for learning that Death by Rejection is a fictional method of torture created by the vicious peanut gallery in my head. It doesn’t exist. I survived the actual torture of substance abuse for a couple of decades. If not cake, everything else is at least manageable.
* to know that I am learning and will continue to learn to manage the emotions of “everything else”.
* that I have the most loving, sage, and fun sober friends in my life who will hold my hand and guide and encourage me as I walk through and sit with these emotions.
* that I know in my heart that I deserve these friendships and these kindnesses, and know that I can return them because my own heart is full of Love.
* to learn that telling someone I have a hopeless crush on them, making myself so terrifyingly vulnerable, was one of the most powerful and empowering things I have ever done.
* to discover that telling someone I have a hopeless crush on them made them happy, not made their skin crawl. (The peanut gallery at work again. Why would I ever think that??).
* that waiting months and months to thoughtfully question if the feelings I have for him were/are honest, deciding with such delight that they were/are indeed, and then expressing them to him was worth the wait. After that much measure, why hide my feelings from the one I like soooooooooooo much?
* for genuinely believing that the feelings I have for him are not life-threatening to me, as suspected up until about 1.5 weeks ago, but are quite lovely.
* for knowing I have a lot of work to do, and being very happy to know I’ll be coming ‘round the mountain again soon enough with more tales to tell of Love and recovery.

Hi!

Last Monday was a perfect summer day – low 80s and not a fluffy cloud in the sky. I wander out of my oppressive office job at my lifeless company to grab an exciting lunch – chicken caesar salad, hold the chicken. I’m standing at the cross-walk waiting for the light to change, and this bouncy fella bounces over to me, and asks with breathless bounciness:

“Excuse me. Do you know your way around this neighborhood?”

I say, “Sort of”. (I’ve worked here for five goddamn years and have refused to learn the street names – o! Boston! How I hated thee!). “What are you trying to find?” I ask.

He, let’s call him “Daemon”, throws his hands up to his face and says with playful exasperation, “A BAR!”.
Naturally.
Of all the business casual fish in the sea of the lunch rush, this guy reels me in. That sign across my forehead apparently still says, “Really bad idea! Really good time!”

But I think: Hot dog! I now see how my experience can benefit others! My feeling of uselessness has disappeared! Have you asked the right person for directions to a bar, or what!!
I say, demurely, ”What kind of bar are you looking for? Sports bar? Dive bar? Pretty girl bar? Martini bar? Karaoke bar?”

He stops me and says dive bar. I think of Wedgies, the most terrifying dive I have ever been to, and that’s saying a lot. I was there one time (one time) and some wild-man truck-driver fresh out of the clink in Maine and fresh off the bus from South Station really really liked my hair, and invited himself to sit with me, Jesssie, and JM. He took out my hair elastic and proceeded to (try to) run his fingers through my hair which is hysterical and if you knew what my hair looked like you’d know why. And he did this unnerving thing with his shot glasses of whisky – he smashed them onto the tops of beer bottles before he slammed them – anyone know what that’s about? Anyway, we were all too afraid of Mr. Scary to tell him to get his grubby mitts off my head, so I just sat there being scalp-raped (which is legitimate rape) and hoped to ease some tension with a few “Shawshank Redemption” jokes, you know – him, jail, Maine . I don’t know if he thought they were as funny as I did. Probably not.

So, scratch Wedgies. How about Foley’s! I’ve moved to and from Boston 8,000 times since 1990, and seems I have always landed at Foley’s (read: was a barfly) during each drive-by, but I didn’t bother trying to give Daemon directions – I don’t know any street names and I was always on autopilot when I frequented the joint – forever a girl on a mission. It was a beautiful day, so I decided to escort our tattooed tourist to the bar… why ever not? He tells me he just moved to Vermont from San Francisco and was visiting a friend in Providence, but missed his bus back to Vermont, and I automatically think, “SCORE!!! Perfect excuse to get drunk at high noon on a Monday! Lucky you, Daemon!!!”. And then I think, “San Francisco?!”

So I say, “I lived in San Francisco for a long time! Where did you live?”

He says, “The Mission”.

I say, “I lived in The Mission for a while! Where did you live?”

He says, “20th and Mission”.
This is one block from where I lived during a particularly shady time of my life. Not My Finest Hour, but up there.

I say, “Noooooooooooooooooo way! I lived on 20th and S. Van Ness for a while!”

He says, “Noooooooooooooooo way!”

I say, “Way!”

And we’re off! What a coincidence that he asks ME for directions in Boston only to find out that 3000 miles and fourteen years ago we lived one block from each-other in San Francisco! AND come to find out that we were both speed freaks at that time, probably both psychotic and hiding in our respective rooms at the same time! How FUN!!! What a small world!!! SF speed freaks are a special breed of lunatic and that’s probably why we were drawn to each-other – no matter where we find ourselves, we will always vibrate at the same dangerous and erratic frequency, and we will always succumb to each-other’s soothing come-hither whale song – a catchy little hair-raising number played at 78RPM. And there we were – two cute crystal meth motor mouths waxing insane about the good ol’ days. I was catapulted back to 1998, and although it pains me to say this, it brought back some happy memories.

So, we arrive at Foley’s and he asks me if I will join him. I tell him I don’t drink and that I should really get back to work, my salad is getting cold. He clearly doesn’t care. He says, “You don’t have to drink! C’mon! I’ll buy you fries!”
FREE FRIES?!?!?!
My worst fear was realized: I got sucked into a bar.

So he says to me he says, “How long have you been in the program?”

I say, “Actually, today is exactly one year and four months!”

He says, “Oooo so you have over a year, huh?”

Pleased with myself, I say, “Yes!” and then immediately catch myself and think, AAAAAARRRGGGGG!!!!!!!! I walked right into that one! Wait. When did I tell my new friend I was in AA? And how the hell does he know stuff about AA? Whatever. He’s cute.  But I do wonder how he gets jobs with that tear-drop tattoo under his eye? Hmm. JK.
I eat fries. He drinks Guinness and whisky at high noon on a Monday, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I admire his shamelessness. We talked about the old neighborhood bars, I asked him if he knew “Funky” the bartender at Shotwell’s, and he said we probably know some of the same people. I shudder and ask, “Do you remember someone named “Kara? No?” Phew. We decide that neither of us wants to “go there”. Again, perfectly fine that neither of us cared to find out if we knew each-other or had mutual friends in our previous lives in SF – we were shady drug addicts (and he was a dealer! Bonus!) and now we prefer to nervously laugh and change the subject. Out of sight, out of mind! Didn’t happen if I have no witnesses! Didn’t matter that I had no witnesses because I sent them all running for the hills! Or slinking away, hoping I wouldn’t notice and make a scene, is more like it. And at the time, I probably didn’t notice. Like sands through the hourglass, so were the friends of my life.

I had to go back to work, but it was so much more fun hanging at a bar with a speed freak who was getting drunk in the middle of a Monday afternoon – I now know that that really only looks like more fun on paper. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to get to Vermont, so he might end up in Boston for the night. Fantastic! We exchanged phone numbers. I told him I was meeting my sponsor then had to go to a meeting in Cambridge after work because I was Chip Chick that month. He said that that sounded like fun and if he wasn’t too drunk, he’d like to come with me. I thought that was a smashingly tiptop idea! I’ve been to a few AA meetings out of town, and they were lovely, a very welcoming lot we boozebags are! I could introduce him to my friends! Isn’t it crazy that we lived one block from each-other in SF??

So, I meet Nelissa, go the meeting, raise my hand and talk about this wacky thing that happened at lunch. I wasn’t concerned that I wound up in a bar with a stranger in the middle of a work-day – in fact, I thought it was a miracle of recovery that I wound up in a bar with a stranger in the middle of a work-day and didn’t drink, nor even wanted to drink! Progress! I heart sobriety! I told “JayBayBeeGirl” more about charming Daemon at the break and said I was going to leave and meet him in town. She gently suggested that I stay through the end of the meeting. I said okie dokie, and then ended up having cheeseburgers after the meeting with Rubbah Fox, and poured my soul out to him yet again about my longing and heart-sickness over you-don’t-know-who (FH). I didn’t forget about Daemon – I just didn’t feel like seeing him anymore and felt no urgency to contact him. Our plans were tentative anyway and depended on how drunk he would be. This did not alarm me. This seemed reasonable.

I was on the train when I remembered that my phone was off. I turned it on to – whoa mama! – a very angry drunken litany of insults. By my calculation, Daemon had been waiting for me drinking for ten hours. In summary, he said he would try to find me so he could scream obscenities at me all night until his train came, and that I was a flake and a tease, and he said he was very upset because he was lost all day, got stood up, and then broke his foot (?).

Something that I think is magical about AA and Love and recovery is how gently I am treated by almost everyone and in almost every way. This whole encounter with Daemon slays me! It’s side-splitting, it’s terrifying, it’s my life. I ignored the ticker-tape of red flags surrounding this guy. I WENT TO A BAR. But then I met with my Nelissa. I went to a meeting. I hung out with my dearests and nearests JBBG and RF. I did everything right. I got textually assaulted by Daemon. I dodged many bullets and put myself in and/or almost put myself in very dangerous situations. But somehow, looking back, I think I recognize a force field in play for the first time in my life! I talk about this lack o’ force field a lot in therapy because I have always felt exposed, like I was always bitch-slapped and blind-sided by people’s insensitivity, because I’ve always been “too sensitive”. My therapist says I need a force field, and I’m all OK hot-shot, how do I get one, and he’s all keep going to AA. I’m not kidding – he says that, he’s always said that. Dick. But I think I understand! I did not beat myself senseless for going to a bar and waaaaaay over-sharing with a stranger – it wasn’t a good idea and hopefully I won’t do it again but I didn’t drink and I told all my friends in AA right after it happened. I was being watched over and protected. They were not dismayed or disappointed. We were all happy and encouraged that I didn’t drink! That’s recovery! Because really, it’s irrelevant if I am in a bar or on Jupiter, if I want to drink, I’ll find a way. (I wonder if they serve Jupitertinis up there? Spacetinis?). I did know Daemon from San Francisco, whether I knew him or knew him, he was my people. Daemons were a dime a dozen out there back then. But he’s not my people now. I sashayed out of the bar not with hysteria over what could have happened, but with a spring in my step remembering that that time in my life was not all utter catastrophe. I had fun and I did drugs because they felt so good, not because I am so stupid and so trashy. I’ve found a little peace with my past, which I believe is called Recovery. Love and AA gave me a gentle reminder that those days are gone, and that there is much more happiness yet to be had…and I was given free fries as a big ol’ hug for accepting and embracing these truths. FREE FRIES!!!!!!!!!

Hi!

I was thinking after that last post about Love that I should maybe counter my simply splendid and sappy (but sincere) gratitude for AA and the gift of Life with some down-home rage. I’ve been in a very bad mood for the past few weeks, and I don’t want to give anyone the impression that, in sobriety, I am always dancing a little soft-shoe 6” above the ground because my heart is so light. Not at all, my dears, nope.

When I first came into AA, I had the impression that not only did everyone know each-other, but they had known each-other pre-AA, too. I thought I was the first social cripple to enter this obnoxiously happy community suicidal, flying blind, and utterly and completely alone (alone but for “Bed” who saved my life by taking me to my first few meetings – thanks, Bed, for saving my life! Love ya, baby!). I was sure that these chirpy creampuffs came in as a pair or as a set. I’d make up stories that would ensure I’d hate them more. Back in the day, they used to be drinking buddies and would wake up hung-over and call each-other and coo and giggle at the pictures (that they actually remember taking) of the boys they met the night before. But then they had one too many Appletinis at a work party once (once) and were so embarrassed that they came into AA. They were not like me. They did not drink barrels of booze alone with their cats and stare blankly at the TV watching “Golden Girls” for hours/days/weeks/months/years on end. I was in the vicious throes of alcoholism/denial when Estelle, Bea, and Rue died. Glazed over and emotionally paralyzed, I’d sigh and think “dead”. And then it was “dead dead”. And then it was “dead dead dead.” I actually got tickets a couple of years ago to see a Tribute to Rue starring Rue herself (!!!) and a bunch of drag queens reenacting scenes from “Golden Girls” at the Castro Theater. I flew out to San Fran and everything, only to find out that they had to postpone the show… permanently, because she died. Life was a cruel meaningless vortex of suffering and misery. My chest seizes even thinking about what’s going to happen when Betty retires to the lanai in the sky. It’ll be Baby’s First (and last – noooooooo!!!!!!) Sober “Golden Girls” Death, and I will mourn, and it will suck the big one. But I will be sober and I will respectfully grieve. But for now, I’ll sigh and lovingly think “alive”.

Anyway, these aforementioned bosom buddies in early sobriety like me would share and laugh ha ha ha about being on a “pink <insert unnecessary sarcastic word said with blistering bitchiness>”. Then, and occasionally now, I wonder if my inner dialogue suggests that I have Tourette Syndrome. Something I heard once when I first came in still brings me comfort: You don’t have to apologize for the mean things you think. Thank God. Silently I scoffed at this pink lemonade so many times that I still often forget the correct AA-ism. Because these pink elephants had these pink toenails, it meant they were not only NOT humiliated by being in AA, but they were HAPPY about it?? W. T. F. They experienced a magical reversal and revitalization of body and mind? Are you fucking kidding me? All I wanted to do was slap the pink lipstick (along with their lips) off of their faces. All I tasted was red hot blood. Since I never had this pink Cadillac, it meant I was not an alcoholic – it meant I was something much much worse. And everyone knows there’s nothing worse than an alcoholic.

I did not hit the ground running in AA (note the bitter jealousy and hatred above). I’d only go to meetings where my beloved littermates “JoSoPretty” and “Fryin’” would be – which was one or two a week – and this women’s step meeting which I dubbed the “I’m So Awesome” meeting because they’d just sit around slobbering all over each-other’s egos. I only suffered through that meeting each week because I thought if I didn’t go, I’d flunk AA. My second sponsor, in as many months, dumped me because she said I was not serious about my sobriety because I wouldn’t do 90-in-90, so I stopped coming altogether. And then “Mendy” pulled me from the grips of bone-dry boredom and isolation, and suggested with a raised voice that I go to a meeting that night. So I did. A bunch of other stuff happened in those first four months that made me feel sooo much worse than I did before coming in. But right around this time last year, my pink eye (gross) started letting the light in. I met “C—”, and “FH”, and Mendy after a meeting one Friday and I spilled my guts and horrors to these gentle sweethearts. I met my Nelissa who has more dirt on me than a pitcher’s mound, and I’m certain she’s taking that dirt to her grave. I scraped the Prince of Hell off the bottom of my shoe. I started going to more meetings hence met more people and started really totally super super LIKING people!!! It took the better chunk of a year but I found myself doing what everyone had suggested I do all along. I had a mostly pleasant and always safe daily routine. I would never for the rest of my life be alone again. A bunch of other stuff happened in that first year that made me feel sooo much better than I did before coming in, wonderfully better. Basically, I felt like captain of the AA Cheerleading Squad. “Someone” found my sobriety and enthusiasm for the program kinda special and said, almost secretively, that my pink panther never has to go away. I thought that was beautiful. I embraced it. My pink balloon has only started growing! There’s nowhere to go but up! Up, up, and away my beautiful, my beautiful (pink) balloooon! Love is waiting there in my beautiful (pink) ballooooon….

But, as I mentioned above, I’ve been in a really rotten mood for the past few weeks, and would bestow upon you, gentlepeople, some rage for your reading pleasure. I’ll begin by quoting arguably the most provocative and talented artists of our time: NWA. “Now the title bitch don’t apply to all women, but all women have a little bitch in ’em”. I’ve been a total bitch lately. Nelissa tells me I feel this way because I am human. She’s so good – that would never have occurred to me. I just figure I’m awful and everyone hates me. I’ve been sweet enough to the plentiful crop of new smiley and sober faces delighting in their new pink <insert unnecessary sarcastic word said with blistering bitchiness>, and I control the middle finger impulse. In a lot of ways, I feel like I just started AA. I’m angry, sad, jealous, unyielding, inpatient, my imaginary boyfriends are constantly wounding or infuriating me, and lately I don’t know if I am intuitive or delusional. “This will pass” – it always does – but not soon enough. My pink rose has wilted, I fear. The fucking honeymoon is over. But then I was talking to “Nay-Nay”, my sweet bunny from Heaven, about these depressing and discouraging feelings (another miracle of AA friendship!) and she said that recovery is not an upward trajectory. It’s like traveling up and around a mountain. In order to get to the peak, you have to circle the bitch a bunch of times, and will have to pass and survive the same craggy and snaggy parts each time around. But each time, you get higher (poor word choice). When you find yourself in that gross part of the mountain, each time you’ll be more altitudinous (?) than the last time, and each time it gets easier, and each time you’ll know to expect it but not ruin your 2^nd ( 3^rd, 4^th, 85^th ) chance at this gorgeous journey by agonizing it’s return. So, my darlings, I shall remain tickled pink as I ride my pink flamingo into the hot pink sunrise of my love and Love. And like my pink balloon, neither shall my pink bubblegum pop in the sunniness of my pink cloud.

Aloha!

Actually, I’m back in Southie, so (insert silent chin nod). Before I entrance you with my thoughts on my current relationship with my Higher Power, here are a few words about where I’ve been

I’ve been away for the past few weeks on vacation – a few days in Portland, OR to see my friend “Messy” (ha! Just kidding, “Jesssie”!), a week in Waikiki to see my SF bestie “Fifi” and her hubby “Titi”, and a week in the grips of a nasty cold / cold medicine stupor. I’ve been to only a handful of meetings in the past three weeks (one was at a bonfire on a beach in Hawaii! Unfortunately, I left that meeting and then went and smoked a bowl) when normally I go to a meeting every day, so on top of feeling disconnected from my body and my routine, I am also feeling disconnected from my loving fellowship. I have however been feeling a deep connection to my couch, my cats, Dayquil/Nyquil (Dayquil “non-drowsy” my ass!), and MSNBC. I have so many fun things to write about, and I shall get to them soon, but here are some of my excuses for being unable to do so since I got back:
• I am trying to catch up with work (SUCH bullshit – can you believe that? earning a paycheck?),
• I am seriously stupid on cold medicine (rest assured that I am getting no buzz from “the quils” – I’m just trying to breathe, see, and prevent my poor little face from otherwise exploding),
• It seems cold and insensitive to write about my much-deserved vacation visiting my understanding and lovely friend on a tropical island, having a religious experience in the pristine Pacific, not to mention having a religious experience in the form of a 9-day shopping spree, when there’s an alarming and potentially devastating situation too close to me that I don’t really know how to stomach or handle or help or even face.

But this blog is about recovery after all, and isn’t recovery about experiencing the beauty and loveliness in life, tapping into this experience that was inaccessible because it was being choked unconscious for so many years by drugs and alcohol? Isn’t it about truly truly truly believing I deserve friends and happiness, even despite the anger and despair around me? Isn’t it about not feeling guilty about having this new warm life while others around me seethe with resentment and frustration? Isn’t it about learning to accept my powerlessness over others’ actions and decisions, and learning to be OK with and not helpless over them? The answer to all these questions is YES. Why, yes, Slushkitty! Go on with yo’ bad self in yo’ good life! …Now on to God!

Slushkitty and Higher Power.. First Comes Love (Middle Comes Love, Infinity Is Love)

A couple of months ago at a meeting, the speaker was talking about his Higher Power, and said, ever so serenely, that he chooses to refer to his Higher Power as “Love” and, just like that, every single thing in my life partnered and got married. With that one word, I felt purpose. I understood the dull ache of emptiness that saddened me for so many years. I felt cradled and safe in the warmth of life. I knew that my role in this loving world was huge and had meaning for so many, beyond me, my family, my cats, and some friends. (I’d like you to go back and read this paragraph aloud and imagine Enya playing in the background). I kid. But really, it was one of those overwhelming moments in my sobriety that shifted my perspective and freed me to move still closer to Hope, closer to Love, closer to the assurance of endless Love.

As a child, God was all about location location location. God saw everything and always knew what I was up to, like some pious, omnipresent, supreme Peeping Tom. It did wonders for my kiddie paranoia. The horror to remember that God was watching when I kissed my pillow! God was always up in the clouds, looking down. My Grampy was also up in the clouds in Heaven looking down watching over me, seeing everything I was up to. Seriously, dudes, love you both, but the thought of being eyeballed around the clock really gave me a gnarly case of the heebee-jeebees. Anyway, when our friendly speaker referred to his Higher Power as “Love”, when my world started making sense, God was suddenly present everywhere and in everything. God wasn’t judging me for kissing my pillow – God WAS my pillow! Love is so much bigger than I am, and isn’t this Higher Power of which they speak a power greater than myself, so isn’t it perfect that God is Love! Love has driven everything I’ve ever done and felt, even the horrible stuff. For example, when I am jealous, it’s because someone has something I want – like a rewarding job, a clean house, an ass, $5, etc…. It’s a horrible feeling. But however misguided, isn’t jealousy a lesson in Love, learning that stuff-and-things will not bring me any Love and happiness? I was, after all, seeking stuff-and-things hoping to find comfort and Love, so my jealousy wasn’t so ugly really. I can try (sucessfully or not) seeing them as goals and not shortcomings. I don’t need stuff-and-things when I have the relationships I have in AA. And haven’t I earned these relationships of unconditional Love through the misery I have endured and gracelessly customized in this disease of alcoholism we share? I am a part of something so much more gorgeous than I am (don’t hate me because I am gorgeous) – love love love the Love we share in AA. I was in Hawaii last week (you know, same ol’, same ol’) and swimming with my sweet Fifi in the ocean, and had a swell of emotion realizing how small I was and how nothing seemed important except being in that moment with my friend. I was a teeny speck in the ocean, and I was part of something so much more glittery and breath-taking than I am (don’t hate me because I am glittery and breath-taking). I was literally swimming in hot salty Love – heh. (Note: As mentioned before, I heard that experiencing more than one emotion at a time is a milestone in recovery, and I was having myself some mighty milestones in the Pacific that day. I was getting misty while experiencing a tremendous Love at the same time that I was repeatedly asking Fifi when the last shark attack in Oahu was and if I keep asking then it won’t happen.. right? She assured me that I’d only get chewed and spit out, not eaten, because I’m not as chubby and delicious as a seal, but I didn’t find this very reassuring. And don’t hate me because I am chubby and delicious).

When I was little, my mom said to me and my sister, “Do yourselves a favor and do not get married until you are at least 25” – she was probably pissed at Dad or something. We were not raised to be the kind of girl who picked out her China patterns in kindergarten, but I always assumed I’d get married and have kids. So now that it wasn’t recommended that I get married until I was well into the twilight of my life (25), it gave me license to be the girlfriend of every unsavory shithead from sea to shining sea. Marriage and kids were never pressing desires but, as I would learn in a crushing way at age 39 with one ovary and with a very grave substance abuse problem, those ships may have sailed. I ruined absolutely everything. A life alone was my penance for years of hurting people, including myself. But for as little attention as I paid back then to achieving the marriage-and-kids thing, it without question was my definition of success. Without them, what am I? A huge useless and shameful disappointment. Then something much more compassionate and greater than I am dragged this bloody pulp to an AA meeting after all other options had been exhausted (geographical cures, meds, therapy, hospitalizations, weed, killing myself, online dating). Something much more hopeful than I am threw me a bone. I had no hope! But there I was, physically sober, sitting with a bunch of happy-go-lucky dumbasses, crying and whimpering and being very angry telling everyone how much I hated myself. I stopped drinking, yes, but something much much more loving than I am took control and swung a screeching u-turn for me on my Heartbreak Highway. I know that I had nothing to do with that life-saving change of direction. That was Love… Love Love Love giving me Hope… Hope Hope Hope. I know 100% and without hesitating that the Love of my Life and I will find/see each-other, and it’ll happen when we’re ready, and isn’t that a heart-exploding and encouraging thing to look forward to? Yaaaaaaay! If Ship Kid sailed, so be it. The obsession to have kids was lifted along with my obsession to drink. Who ever EVER would have believed this possible? Seriously!!! This change was not made deliberately and out of blind faith, but very gently through a Love of me that’s waaaay bigger than I.

Someone in AA once said (I actually heard it before I was in AA and I rolled my eyes and muttered “drama queen” under my breath), that her Higher Power loves her more than anything she could imagine. Drama queen or not, her words made an impact. My thoughts went to my cats (because I am 40, single, and live alone with my 3 cats – got a problem with that? Then bite me or marry me). I thought of my cats because I love them soooooo much and they don’t give me any lip. They’re furballs of affectionate, not of the bitchy, aloof variety of cat. They just want to be fed and touched, and to play and lounge in the sun – who wouldn’t want that life?? If you rub them the wrong way, they’ll scratch your face off. They have basic needs and are so innocent and mushy – I honestly don’t understand how some people don’t like cats. Anyway, I imagine how much I love my cats and then try to imagine that my Higher Power has always and will always love me a MILLION times more than that. I realize that despite all my embarrassing and gross shenanigans over the years, I have always only, like my cats, had basic needs and have always been innocent and mushy, and have always just done my best wrestling this disease, this disease that tells me I don’t have one.

I fall in love every time I turn the corner, but Love, with a capital “L”, has a new meaning to me. It’s light and sunny, and certainly not a miserable institution (marriage) I felt doomed to endure. Damn – that sounded grim! I mean that being alone was just never a long-term option, so I settled into abusive, or at best, unhealthy relationships because I believed I deserved nothing better. My definition of success now is finding and recognizing and embracing Love wherever I can. I may be single, and am not terribly happy about it, but I already am in Love! I am delighted and never alone with honest and kind and fun friendships. In so many ways that I now see all the time, I am a part of something greater than myself, and an active part of it, not just someone fumbling through something dark and sad. This glittery, loving, hopeful, gorgeous, breath-taking, chubby, delicious place wouldn’t be the same without me. And I know now that this has always been the truth. Love has always been in me. Me has always been in Love. I’m kind of a big deal.

Hi!

More Steps 2 and 3 writing for y’all! The history of my relationship with my Higher Power. Part 2:

The Blurry Years (20 of Them):

There was a point in my life when I was interested in the occult and the esoteric, specifically astrology and psychics. But back to childhood for a sec… From a very young age, I believed in ghosts, and I still do. We lived in a haunted house! One time my mom was cleaning and went down to the cellar to look for rubber gloves, and when she came back upstairs, there was a pair of workmen’s gloves in the middle of the stairs! There’s no way she could have not seen them on the way down. One time I was coloring in the living room and looked up and saw the light unscrew and shatter onto the middle of the floor. She said she always felt a benevolent presence in the house. I say I always felt scared shitless in the house. I became interested in astrology somewhere along the line, mostly because I liked the descriptions of Aquarius, the sign ruled by Uranus (ha) – it’s the sign of genius (but you’ve figured this out by now, dear readers), quirkiness, human kindness, unpredictability, freedom, friendship, eccentricity, beauty. (Yeah, OK, I lied about the beauty part. Yeah, Libra is indeed all about beauty, yes, Libra, you you you. Go give yourself a congratulatory kiss). At the time, these traits were much more flattering than how I normally described myself. I think the common physical traits of specific signs are also spot-on sometimes — the murderous loins of Scorpio, the moon face of Cancer, the crossed eyes of Libra (crossed from kissing mirrors). Calves and ankles are supposed to be the most erogenous zones for an Aquarius; and it’s suggested that suitors decorate mine with body paint and wild images to catch my fancy. I simply cannot count the times my suitors have walked up to me and started lustfully painting my legs. Uncanny! I had my chart read once, but my eyes rolled back in my head when I saw actual charts and maps. Math?!?!?! All I wanted to know was where the love of my life is and when would I meet him, and why every mirror-kissing Libra I’ve ever known has broken my heart! (Yeah, Libra, you know who you are because you’re so vain. I bet you think this blog is about you. Don’t you? Don’t you?). This makes no sense! We Aquarius and Libra are both meant to be emotionally detached yet have hearts where our eyes should be. Me? Emotionally detached?? HAAA! I’ve been known to become hopelessly and emotionally attached to scaffolding and coffee filters. So, I wanted a little more accuracy than the mathematical study of celestial bodies (yeah, not yours, Libra), so I started going to a psychic. (See “Allexx” at the Tremont Tea Room – seriously!). The first time I saw Allexx he made my hair stand on-end. He said that 1). he saw me in a yellow shirt sitting outside with sunflower seeds making hats, 2). I was writing to someone named Jake and he’s seen me twice, but I have never seen him, and 3). he saw me flying over bridges and living with someone named Christie. WELL, 1). At the time I was in-between a geo-relo (geographical cure) living with my mom in Boston.. MAKING HATS WITH SUNFLOWER SEEDS IN A YELLOW SHIRT OUTSIDE ON MY MOM’S DECK, 2). Was WRITING TO SOMEONE NAMED JAKE – he was actually a Jason Priestly impostor and he stalked me twice but I never saw him because what kind of stalker would that make him, right?, and 3). I moved to San Francisco a few months later and FLEW OVER BRIDGES (par avion, of course) AND LIVED WITH SOMEONE NAMED CHRISTIE. How do you explain that? I can’t. He used Tarot cards. This inspired me to get my own deck and give my clairvoyant potential a gander. It’s important to note that this was at the same time I was in the wanton throes of my steamy crystal meth love affair. Watch out, Miss Cleo! I was talented! Being up for days on end, I had visions of biblical and spooky measure. I was so psychic in fact, that I frightened myself… and others. But being both psychic and psychotic, I was also frightened to leave the house, so let’s not give a girl too much credit. My captive audience of speed freaks eventually escaped captivity, and I eventually retired the deck. It was but a brief endeavor ~ onward and upward! Back to important stuff like staring at the wall and praying my roommate wouldn’t do something terrifying and appalling, like turn on a light.

Even through my more altered states, I always believed in a power greater than myself. Whether it was a single, loving figure like God sporting the white beard, or some cold and mystical energy involving math and planets and shit, I felt (and feel) part of something much bigger. I felt (and feel) there was/is a plan for me already mapped out, like a reservation in Heaven if I am a kind and loving person, or being forever tapped into the universe if I continue being a genius.

As with my altered states, I also always believed in a power greater than myself through my suicidal states. I never asked God for help when I was gasping for air. I never beat my chest and blamed God when times were truly unbearable. And oh they were unbearable. I hit my bottom seven years ago when I moved to Boston, and scraped that bottom until one year, two months, and 15 days ago. So, I say with no exaggeration that I was actively suicidal for over six years – hoping to die, trying to die, praying to the Big Guy in the Sky to help me die. Being Catholic, suicide meant going on a vacation to somewhere warm, eternally. In my heart, I did not believe that applied to me – I was already in Hell and God’s master plan for me was for me to be a cautionary tale. “Hello. My name is Don’t Do Drugs”. I was put on earth so others may be saved. Now, this made perfect sense to me… until literally last week when I was telling this to a lovely friend “Sleve” who is a devout Catholic. Sleve pointed out that that’s called “martyrdom”, and I was like, “Oh Jesus Christ, for the love of God, Hell No!!”. I never thought of it in an Immaculate Sin of the Crack Pipe kind of way, I thought of it more in an “After School Special” kind of way, starring God (as Himself). Besides daydreaming of deliberate suicide, I also had very colorful suicidal ideations. My favorite was the one where I ran into traffic on West Broadway to save a kitten that had wandered into the street. I’d get flattened by a car, the kitten would be untouched. It would be all over the news – make even national news and the “Today Show”, people who thought I was a raving maniac will be interviewed and say what a beautiful soul I am, boys would realize I am The One Who Got Away. The kitten’s owners, guilt-ridden and inconsolable, would devote the rest of their lives to helping pass laws that would make it illegal for cat owners to let their cats outside in the city without a leash. I would be canonized. The SPCA and PETA would petition to have a National Holiday named after me – Saint Cara of de Kitty.

Hi! Happy Friday!

As part of Steps 2 and 3, Nelissa has asked me to write about my history with my Higher Power…since birth. Hold on to your halos! I need to do this in installments. Here’s birth through high school…

Early Childhood:

I was raised Catholic which means I went to Church every Sunday, CCD (Catholic Christian something-or-other, or “Central City Dump”, depending on contempt level) once a week, and was most assuredly going to Hell if I ever offer someone a piece of gum but secretly hope they would say “no thanks” again. Bad, bad Catholic, said Sister Ann. But despite the facts that Sister Ann threw me across the library once (for no good reason, I might add. And there ARE good reasons to throw a 10-year-old nervous wreck across the library), and Sister Audrey threw me down a flight a stairs once for wearing mascara, even though Rachael McCarthy looked like Alice Cooper or perhaps a goddamn (literally) hooker and no one said a goddamn word to her, I never resented these women-eunuch brides of God (ooo snap! Going to Hell for that one!), nor questioned my faith. I said my prayers every night. I did not kneel though – I said them in bed. I thought that in the olden days, the world was in black and white (like old movies and old photographs), so I used to thank God that we have colors now, and prayed that, when I got older, we’d have even more colors! and was excited to find out what they would be. I prayed that when I died, I’d wake up in Heaven and be an angel… and as long as I happily and selflessly and Catholicly offered whoever a piece of gum and truly and honestly and Catholicly hoped they’d say YES, I was most assuredly going to Heaven. So, when I got to Heaven, I’d wake up as an angel, and I’d pray to be a full-bodied angel, not one of those head-only angels with their wings coming out of the backs of their heads. Those chumps must have been only marginally good Catholics, living in the Section 8 projects of Heaven. And how the Hell would I pat my Springer Spaniel in Heaven with no arms? Here we go again – that age-old question – is Dog Heaven a neighborhood of People Heaven or is it in another cloud altogether? A maddening mystery! Anyway, I mentioned earlier that I prayed in bed and not on my knees. I now think that whoever suggested the knee thing was on to something – you’re less likely to fall asleep on your knees praying than in bed praying with your Springer Spaniel. I was taught that you start your prayers by blessing yourself – in the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen – then say your prayers, and then end your prayers by blessing yourself again – in the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. Inevitably, I’d bless myself, start saying my prayers, then fall asleep, dreaming presumably about Technicolor full-bodied angels. I’d wake up and be like “oh shit – did that prayer count since I didn’t bless myself to close it?”. So, I’d bless myself again – in the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen – to close the prayer, presuming that the night before, I’d blessed myself, started saying my prayers, then fell asleep. And then I’d think “But God knows I was finished, right?”, so I’d bless myself again – in the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen – thinking that the blessing I just gave myself was the beginning of a prayer, not an end. I’d bless myself again for good measure – in the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. Maybe once more will cinch it. In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. Where was I? In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. Zzzzz…

Tween Years:

I asked my mother what happens when you die… because I needed one more thing to obsess about, I guess. She said it was like falling asleep and never waking up. This terrified me. Two things going on here: 1 – the thought of being dead in nothingness for an eternity made me want to throw myself off the roof. This actually makes sense, even if only to those who have OCD, like moi. The thought of having to wait a lifetime to find out what lay ahead for an eternity was dizzying – the suspense would be unbearable! May as well throw myself off the roof… and wait and see what happens, hopefully not for an eternity though. Dammit! Stuck in the OCD loop again! Anyway, I completely disagreed with her – it was contrary to the way I was raised, too. I still am certain that there’s a Heaven, and I cannot explain why I believe this. (HP in the house yo! Woo! Woo!). 2 – If she was correct, that would mean there was no God. Now, I did not grow up sitting in front of the fireplace saying rosaries and reading the Bible with my family. I don’t recall ever discussing God shit at all actually. But we did go to Church and it seems that was enough foundation for me to know a spiritual life. I felt comforted and protected by an ever-present and kind God character. If I did unto others as I would have others do unto me, I would be a good person and get my heavenly wings (and a matching body). It was as simple as that. I don’t remember if I ever questioned where God was during the droughts and famine inEthiopia, even though the images and my Catholic guilt haunted me. I want to say that I precociously believed that one day I’d understand why there was such suffering and misery in the world, and when I was older, I would do all I could to ease others’ pain. But I was probably playing Ms. Pac-Man and telling tasteless jokes. What do you call an Ethiopian with buck teeth? A rake!

High School:

God was at the mall. I kept looking but never found Him. My hair must have been in the way.

More to follow….  Amen. In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen. In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Amen….

Dear Alkie,

I had a friend of the opposite sex who has expressed attraction to me but felt it would be the “wrong” thing to act on. I then became attracted to her, and expressed that to her. She then just stopped speaking to me without any real discussion around that decision with me. I’ve had a hard time just being accepting of the situation because I truly love and care for this person, and valued our friendship dearly.
How do you suggest I be handling the situation?

Dear Rubbah Fox,

Thank you for your question! I apologize for answering 1.5 months later. I am going to ignore your snippy comment about withdrawing your request for my advice because I took too long to reply, and your mysterious “situation” of mutual “attraction” deflated itself… not unlike a flat tire on your highway to spiritual enlightenment, I imagine. Do I seem unsympathetic? I’m afraid you were pinned in the center of the Ground Zero of my Imaginary Boyfriendland during the infancy of my sobriety, when fellas were a new species to me. Does that sound like a frightening place to be pinned? Yes. Yes, it does. I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but you and I had a pretty nasty break-up last summer. You remembered my name after only having met me once so, clearly, you were in love with me, but then you cheated on me and I was shocked, simply gutted! Gutted! Shocked! I didn’t talk to you for several months and you didn’t even notice. That was cold, dude. But, alas, I’ve evolved since then, and I’ll have you know that I did not snicker when I got your question above. I actually felt really bad because, as skeezy as affairs are, like mold festering in dampness and darkness, I know how disappointed you’ve been lately because all the girls you like turn out to be lesbians (coincidence?). At least you know that jezebels who consider cheating on their boyfriends may be interested in you, whereas lesbians will never be. So, you’re heading in the right direction! Keep up the good work, sunshine!

I was kidding about affairs being skeezy and like mold festering in dampness and darkness. Someone called me mold once – this is a close second to my favorite term of endearment from an old boyfriend: “shifty-eyed motherfucker” (I’ve mentioned this before but, really, it’s priceless, and bears repeating). Being insane, I delighted in both compliments. Someone actually did liken our torrid affair to mold – “our love is not a love – instead it is a mold festering in dampness and darkness”.  I was devastated. I was 17. Let’s call him “MhristianUno”. MhristianUno was 18. It was 1989. Our torrid affair consisted of him “cheating” on his girlfriend by taking me to see My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult at Ground Zero, a terrifying band (for me at that age) at a terrifying dive (before dives were a.w.e.s.o.m.e) in Central Square, which I think is a gay bar now. Why they let a 17-year-old preppy teeny bopper in, I do not know, but it’s kind of a cool story now – makes me sound edgy. I was so not edgy. Anyway, MhristianUno wanted me to move to San Francisco… oooooooooo, my dreamy kittycat lovemuffin, let me graduate high school first and then we shall begin our precious storybook love (and I’ll be sure to wear a flower in my hair)…. but then he abruptly changed his mind, called me mold, and I moved to Stockholm instead. I did eventually move toSan Francisco, but 7 years later. And there we ran into each-other ALL the time… and pretended not to know each-other – this is a typical punch line of my many storybook loves that would follow in the years to come. And check it yo – I was hanging out inBrooklyn a few years ago with a friend and some of his friends, and this gal asked me where I was from and, wouldn’t you know! She is good friends with MhristianUno! She texted him and said “Guess who I’m hanging out with!!!” and he said something like “Are you fucking kidding me?” but as per some contemporary social mandate, he sent me a friend request, and we’re now Facebook friends. I unsubscribed to his status updates though. Take THAT, Moldy MhristianUno!

The one realistic belief I have about love is that you can’t help who you fall in love with, or when you fall in love with them. Have you been watching The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee? Yeah, I don’t really care either EXCEPT that I practically lose consciousness with bliss every time I see Prince Charles and Camilla! Have you ever seen the ol’ chap so happy, so in love? Camillagate was misery, MISERY, for them, for the poor duchess! Why could no one understand?? He loved HER first! He wanted to marry Camilla NOT Diana! But Diana was cuter and younger, and Charles was a total mamma’s boy back then, and he had to marry Diana, and Diana was like, dude, check out the digs! and they were both like, whatever, I do. Yet no one could extinguish Charles’ and Camilla’s decades-long white hot passion (eeew), and Charles declared their love “non-negotiable” (awwww)… and look at them now!!! I defy you to find a picture of them not laughing, and not the canned poses either. They truly look like they’re in love, and have such fun together. Even The Queen has taken a shine to Camilla, and they’re spotted lunching on cucumber sandwiches together often. Diana and Fergie just made fun of The Queen’s shoes. The Queen and Camilla seem genuinely fond of each-other. A few weeks ago, Charles substituted as weatherman for some TV station, and Camilla was standing by the camera, and they were both giggling like little kids. I do not exaggerate when I say I had tears of happiness for them streaming down my face, as I sat with my three cats in my 1-bedroom paradise in Southie, yes, waiting for my prince. How.Sad.Is.That? ANYway, my point, RF, is that what may seem “wrong” to act on, may just be bad timing. Sometimes, you have to kiss a lot of frogs. And sometimes things come full circle. I hear.

Oh, hold the phone! I just got around to reading your question. Does “wrong” thing to act on even mean she has a boyfriend?? I just assumed that’s what you meant. Or does she mean “wrong” in CDC kind of way? Or does it mean that you did not have a year of sobriety yet, and that it is “wrong” to break the AA law? Speaking of having a year of sobriety, congratulations! Neither of us are AA jail bait anymore!  We should just get it over with. What do you say? [Refer to “Dear Slushkitten” if you have reservations – I am not a skank, nor do I have any STDs. I can prove it. Or does that Rubbah you the wrong way?].

Love,

Slushkitty

Hi!

I got an interesting question from a gentleman we all love who is interested in your, my fluffy readers, thoughts! After my last entry “Dear Slushkitten” and I’m afraid my next entry coming soon “Dear Rubbuh Fox”, this blog can really use some class – the class, maturity, and curiosity (without necessarily being “solemn or earnest”)  that Bhaskar carries in his pocket and in his heart wherever he goes, I am sure, and certainly to every meeting…. Here’s Bhaskar’s question….

Dear Cara,

The question, “Is a serious question prohibited?” is not the question I actually want to ask.

My question is simpler: How can I use my sobriety to persuade newcomers that:

1. their recovery is valuable and important; 
2. that they should take themselves seriously; 
3. that it’s worthwhile to be ambitious; 
4. and that ambition and dreams are not at odds with humility and being “another bozo on the bus”

A clarification: I don’t think that to accept these things means that one has to be solemn or earnest.  I don’t think that this means that one’s ambitions have to be discussed with all and sundry, in meetings or even with one’s sponsor. In AA, as in the rest of the world, one chooses one’s confidants carefully. It’s better to miss out on a really good confidant than to make the mistake of choosing one who’s imprudent or indiscreet.  

But I do think that one’s sobriety has to be taken seriously.  (If you’re a step person, steps six and seven are relevant.  They are non-trivial and they are tough — they have to be taken as complex, and taking those steps is a process that should take years, not days.)

I’m expressing an opinion as though I were asking a question, of course. But there is a question?  How do even the newly sober (say 6+ months and greater) recognize this in their friends?  Does being part of the fellowship mean encouraging people to explore all their abilities, or it does stop with “mere sobriety,” whatever that is?

I also write this question because I am interested in the answers of the people on this forum — they are the people by whom I would like to be influenced, not necessarily in the other direction.

Finally, although “Is a serious question prohibited?” is not the actual question, I do get excited by sentences like the truth or falsehood of sentences like “This sentence is false.”  And I’m always delighted to discuss those types of statements — rather than sobriety, for example.

I do like the blog, its lightness and its comfort, its implicit but relaxed assurance of friendship and support.

Thanks,

Bhaskar

We’re looking forward to your comments!

Love,

Slushkitty

Hi!

Here’s my first response to your “Dear Slushkitty/Alkie” questions! More to follow…, so stay tuned!

From Cassie: