Hi!

I swear, I promise I’ll get to the “Dear Slushkitty” advice chunk o’ blog, but first…

 Maurice Sendak died on Tuesday and I am heartbroken about it. A lovely little chapter of my childhood gone gone gone…sigh… big big sigh. Sigh. For the past few days, all I’ve done is watch “Really Rosie” (circa 1975) on youtube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Y3mWDkB6o&feature=relmfu and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsuJOwSJ7e4&feature=relmfu), all weepy and sentimental. Oh Rosie, Really Rosie! “I am a star! I’m famous and wonderful and everybody loves me and wants to be me! Who can blame them?”. And Alligator standing behind Rosie, making fun of her by holding up signs that say “Horrible” and “Nuts” – this was definitely the part of her story I identified with most. “You better believe me! I’m a great big deal! BELIEVE ME! BELIEEEEEEEEEVE ME!”. The heels! The hat! The feather! Allll the feathers! The confidence! The imagination! Carole King! Oh Rosie Rosie! I love you so much! If Rosie was alive today, I think she’d be in her early 40s, like me. “The enchanted one – that’s me!”. I bet she’d still be enchanted. I bet she wouldn’t be selling dial-up modems. I wonder if she ever had a drug problem. I bet she did. A lot of off-beat personalities with their kooky imaginations do. And then they get better. And then they resume Life with their off-beat personalities with their kooky imaginations, but now they have real friends, not just imaginary ones, and not just convenient ones. It happens, we all get better if we really try, and isn’t that just tops, just the grooviest? Wheeeeeeee! Finding an outlet for said imagination is another story – a girl can get only so much mileage out of pretty dresses and pretty make-up…

I don’t remember playing Dress-Up as a child. I also don’t remember having an opinion either way on clothes, which makes absolutely no sense – you’d know why I say this if you saw my closet(s). Now, make-up? Now we’re talking! Kids are quite the orangutangs, and I was no different. I don’t know if my mother just kept her make-up and nail polish on the very top shelf of her closet or if that’s just where she hid it from me, but I wanted it, so I came, I saw, I climbed, I conquered. I managed one time to shatter a nail polish bottle with my bare hands. My mom was a hero for running like hell to me when she heard my blood-curdling screams from her bedroom, and saving me from blindness from the toxic “Cha-Ching Cherry” goo and glass that were splattered on my eyes, face, and hands – the horror! The heroics! Actually, I just broke the top of the bottle by turning the cap the wrong way, and probably got one drop on my Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt – I have always been a hysterical, nervous wreck, even at age, like, 5. My mother wasn’t angry, she was just awed that I managed to break the bottle with my bare (and tiny!) hands. But soon enough, I would become known as “The Kiss of Death” because I managed to break everything I touched. This hasn’t changed. Back then it was Christmas presents (it was Glo-Worm one year – ripped the zipper right off the back, then it wouldn’t light up when I hugged it. I’d have to hug it with one arm and squeeze the glow stick with the other. Sad, right?), now I break electronics, which is another valuable skill I bring to the electronics company I work for.

Anyhooters, back to Rosie. In the past couple of days, I’ve been consumed by some funny, some disturbing memories that “Really Rosie” sparked. There was an animated special made of the book (links above – watch!!! It’s brilliant! Carole King!), and it was showing at the library. My sister “Bachel” and I went one rainy summer afternoon – I remember it was rainy because the rainwater at the bottom of the hill didn’t drain properly, so there was an ocean of a puddle by the back entrance of the library. Bachel, on two separate occasions, tried jumping over the puddle for fun but landed instead with a big splash on all fours, face-first in the middle of the puddle – soaked, crying. Did I mention that she did this on two separate occasions? I don’t think I thought it was funny at the time – but now it is. (Payback is a bitch, eh Bach? Cheers to telling our entire high school that I spent a few hours in the ER getting a shampoo bottle cut off my finger. So there!!! How does it feel??). At the time of the splash, I was a hysterical nervous wreck (as per usual) over how much trouble I was going to get in because Bachel fell in a puddle. This was a pattern. Bachel slid down the banister once, fell off sideways half-way down, and landed face-first onto the first floor. Always calm and rational in a crisis, I ran upstairs and hid in my room. I got in trouble. One time, Bachel was riding her bike and skid on some sand on the road, and fell face-first onto the pavement. Always calm and rational in a crisis, I ran home and hid in my room. I got in trouble. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know what “trouble” meant! My mother has an award-winning hairy eyeball – maybe that was all the “trouble” I got in (suffering the hairy eyeball) and all it took for me to be remorseful, so very remorseful for things my sister did. The hysteric minding the klutz. Oh dear.

Ummm – this might all sound kinda depressing, but I’ve been delighting all day! I haven’t thought about this stuff in 30+ years! So fun! It’s funny that I always thought of myself as uncoordinated and clumsy – getting stitches in my head three times doing the same thing and all. But Bachel? What a mess! Always soaked, bleeding. One summer she broke both wrists. She was a failed orangutang and flew off the monkey bars and broke her wrist, got her cast off, then two weeks later (2 days later?) broke the other wrist falling while roller-skating. I guess I wasn’t around for those accidents because I would have been in BIG trouble. Haaa. I must have been hiding in my closet, blossoming into a hysterical nervous wreck. Haaa! I was probably hiding in the closet, yes, but only to apply the forbidden nail polish. “I am a star! I’m famous and wonderful and everybody loves me and wants to be me!” but for the love of God, don’t ask me to babysit.

I thank you so so so much for Really Rosie, Mr. Sendak! She got this girl through some tough times. Rest in Peace. Sigh… big big sigh. Sigh.

Hi! Remember me? 

First, I’m so flattered that anyone would be interested in my advice for “Dear Alkie/Slushkitty”! I’m also glad that most of you got the joke of maladjusted me being an advice columnist. I hope you realize that the advice you’re going to get (one of these days) is from the same girl that thought it was a good idea to demand that the Marin County Police send a helicopter to rescue her when she got caught three sheets to the wind in the middle of a trail while hiking Mount Tam one night. “Mount” as in “mountain”, nowhere to go but down, straight down, 2572 ft down. Goddamn Germans and their Oktoberfests. And their rope swings. *Cringe*. But yes, thank you for all of your questions! I am giddy to answer them! How about this – I answer them within the week (or so)? I need to get ya’ll current on my life before I can thoughtfully answer them. For now, let’s talk procrastination and paralysis! Wheeee!!!!

But first… Second, I am so touched that some of you have been wondering where I have been! Yay! I have friends! Or as my therapist (hi, John!) calls you, my “adoring fans”! In a lifetime of lonely, he asked where all my adoring fans were. I have finally found them, the modest term being “friends”. Love love love love love you guys. Anyway, I’m still here. I have had so much shit going on in Reality, in Recovery, and in this constant Romance and Psychosis Soup in which I float, I don’t know where to start, therefore, I start nothing. Historically speaking, I crack under pressure. Historically, “cracking” meant chemically inconveniencing myself to the point of paralysis. Presently, “cracking” means suffering a menagerie of unnerving emotions simultaneously without imploding. I crack, like the walnuts on West Broadway (the nuts who sit on that wall on West Broadway), I laugh, I cry, I catch myself arguing with myself emphatically with these half-Italian hands, I whimper, my heart – it sings, it breaks, all to the point of paralysis. Oooooooooooo feel those sweet sweet emotions, my friends! It hurts! It hurts! It feels so good! My sponsor says that experiencing more than one emotion at the same time is a milestone in recovery. If this is true, I am now the President of AA (sorry, Rubbah Fox! I plagiarize and I usurp!). But really, NB asked if she would ever get out of her own way. NB, back at ya’, pretty lady! I ask you the same – will I? The distraction of work is distracting me from my blog which is distracting me from housework which is distracting me from my blog which is distracting me from work! I can’t start or finish anything! Ever! I have a work invoice that is 28 months overdue! I’m not kidding! I’ve been distracting the republican boob in finance with cat chat every Monday-Friday for the past 28 months, so she won’t ask me about it! I had to hire a cleaning person to come over and pick up frosting off the rug from when Penny knocked a cupcake off the coffee table! It was there for like two weeks and all I could do was stare at it and wring my hands, paralyzed! This is pathological! This is madness! I talked to my shrink about it, and he suggested that I either start Adderall or look for a new job. Being an adroit speed freak, I was all “ADDERALL! ADDERALL! ADDERALL!”. I nonchalantly chose the Adderall option last year, had a manageable attack of psychosis, threw the bottle at The King of Hell I was dating, and pleasantly realized that maybe the speed ship really had sailed. I hope anyway. I talked to my therapist about my behavior, and he suggested that I perhaps try to do some work to clear my conscience and also to look for a new job. I talked to my AA friends and they unanimously offered to come over and help me clean, unanimously suggested I look for a new job, and unanimously chirped, “Welcome to Sobriety”. I need a new job….

In recovery, I’ve noticed a troubling change in my work productivity – being, it doesn’t exist. Since getting my first grown-up job in 1996 (which coincidentally is the same year crystal meth stormed my scene), I have been a wreck, a spaz about holding onto my jobs. I don’t know if it was guilt, moxie, necessity, or all of them – I needed the providence of a paycheck and self-reliance to ensure I’d never have to go back toBoston. FAIL! So, now that I am here, I’m all, “Whatever. Like I care”. Haaaaaa. In the past, I identified myself as my jobs – Flower Girl, Fashion Plate. Now, I don’t have that burden of identifying myself as my job, which is really easy to do right now if you’re me – I’m a socially awkward technophobe with a crippling fear of rejection, so fittingly, I am a sales manager for a technology company – needless to say, baby don’t get no commission. In the past, all I had to do was get through the work day without barfing, do a marginally acceptable job so I could fly under the radar, then fly under that radar so that no one would notice that I looked like hell, smelled like a brewery, was cross-eyed, trembled, stuttered, sweat, blah blah. There were varying degrees of my morning/afternoon/early evening misery, but I was never non-toxic, and I was certainly never happy. The paralysis part is that now, everything is secondary to my recovery, including work. Some “sweet angel from heaven” once said that my only job in my first year of sobriety is to not drink, and that I should say that to my boss if he gives me any shit about slacking. Ha! What’s my job in Year 2? Does anyone know? Anyway, work really should indeed be secondary to my recovery, except maybe during regular business hours, when maybe I really should be working… booooooooring…. instead of Gmail chatting with “Bambie” all day about boys, love, career, money, recovery, clothes, pets, in no particular order, but boys are usually first. Bambie and my other lovelies in the fellowship keep me sober, keep me hopeful, and keep me happy, and as history dictates, if Slushkitty’s not happy, no one is happy. I see to that. Ha! But really, I’m useless to everyone if I am not sober. So really my boss and the company should be supporting me in the ways in which I decide to prioritize and manage my responsibilities. And what’s the rush anyway? I sell dial-up modems for a living!! If they can wait seven and a half hours to get an internet connection, they can wait a few days for me to get around to answering them. Chatting with Bambie and writing in my blog keep me sober, so really it’s in everyone’s best interest that this is what I continue to do all day. (Did I say I need a new job? Did I say why?).

Hi!

My sponsor, let’s call her “Nelissa”, had the brilliant – BRILLIANT!!! – idea that I start a new section of my blog  – an advice column! I can’t decide if it should be called “Dear Alkie” (get it?) or “Dear Slushkitty”, so I’ll leave that up to you. Address me as you please. My only request is that you call me anything but “Drunky So-and-So”, “Shifty-Eyed Motherfucker” or “Psycho Bitch” – I’d like to leave these pet names behind me along with the rest of the wreckage. Anyway, I will answer all your questions related to love, recovery, cats – hell, anything you care to ask me, me – a well-adjusted recovering alcoholic and addict with a solid, decades-long history of good ideas! I hope my sage advice will wow and inspire you! Since I do not have your questions yet, you may want to imagine my answers will resemble those willy-nilly answers of the Magic 8-Ball (the Magic 8-Balls you find in Urban Outfitters, not the ones you find… on Craig’s List. What did you think I was going to say?). And like the Magic 8-Ball, if you get the reply you want, your day = made. If you don’t like the answer, just re-phrase, shake it baby!, and ask again until you get the right answer!

This is going to be so much fun! Please ask your questions as a comment to this post, or send to my personal email Cara02127@rocketmail.com (I think it’s OK to post my email, right?).

Write back soon!

Xoxoxoxox to infinity… 

Hi!

My One Year Anniversary in CK is in t minus 2 days on Friday, April 13^th, 2012. I have a few thoughts on the matter, as you may imagine. But instead of being all mushy and sappy, and oozing my gratitude and love true love for all of my new friends who have carried me this year and have each in their own earnest and gentle way (and may not even be aware that they did so) saved my life a hundred times, up and down, all over the place, I’m going to start a little “Then and Now” series describing some changes that have taken place in my early sobriety with regards to some totally arbitrary stuff in my life.

Then and Now – Part One:

Facebook (Part One):

My participation as an Active Alcoholic ~

A long time ago, I refused to join Facebook because I tip-toed through it once, and it kindly suggested some people I might know and may want to add to my friends list. They were ALL kids from high school. I cancelled my account immediately.

Now, high school was fine, despite a couple of humiliating and traumatic events that still haunt me today. Now, the high school reunion? Not so fine. Aw Lawdy, did I get drunk. I’ll give a quick summary and spare both you and me the magnificent details. I was a nervous wreck, so to calm those nerves, I had a few (7) drinks at home first. I was wearing unreasonably high heels, fell down the stairs holding an arrangement of flowers, got soaked, evidently had my picture taken a million times (they were posted on my class’s web site and I have no idea who most of these people are but we looked pretty chummy in the pictures – thanks, booze!), and I made it home but lost my cat. And my dignity.

Back to Facebook. I joined a couple of years ago, a little late in the game, after caving to the persuasions of my Facebook junky friends. As expected, I got a deluge of friend requests from these same kids from high school. I was so embarrassed but then I thought, “Hold the phone! YES! I can redeem myself from the reunion horror show with my witty, fun-loving posts about my fulfilling and rewarding, rich rich life! I’m carefree and can, at a moment’s notice and on a whim, pack up and move cross-country! No ball-and-chain on me, no kids, no stuffy 9-5 holding me back! A perfect plan! Cyber Salvation!”. That didn’t happen. What happened is more like this morningtime IM with my BFF:

BFF: So, are you ok? What happened to you last night?

Me: I don’t remember. Can we just leave it at that?

BFF: You might want to take down that FB update.

Me: FML. Don’t tell me what I wrote. Will you take it down for me?

BFF: Yup. Is your password still P L E A S E P U T M E O U T O F M Y M I S E R Y?

Me:  Yup. Did anyone comment on it? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

My participation as a Recovering Alcoholic ~

Me: Does anyone give a shit about anything on FB?

BFF: No.

Me: Cool.

Public Transportation (Internal Dialogue):

My experience as an Active Alcoholic ~

Here comes the train. Please don’t be packed. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t be packed. Damn it, it’s packed. Should I squeeze on? What if the door closes on me? I will definitely die of humiliation. What’s everyone else doing? What would a normal person do? A normal person wouldn’t get plastered on a Wednesday night. Stupid stupid stupid!!! Maybe I should just walk to work – I so cannot deal with this. It’s 3 miles. I’ll never make it. I swear to God if I manage to get on this train and anyone is wearing too much perfume, or is audibly eating something or is eating any type of pungent pig product or eating anything at all actually, or is screaming into their fucking cell phone, I’ll repay them for their courtesy by throwing up on them, instead of near them. I’m never going to make it.

My experience as a Recovering Alcoholic ~

I think I’ll go for a walk outside now, the summer sun’s callin’ my name, (I hear ya now), I just can’t stay inside all day, I gotta get out get me some of those raaaaaaays, everybody’s smilin’, sunshine day, everybody’s laughin’, sunshine day, everybody seems so happy today. It’s a sunshine day…. . Yay! The train! Yay! A seat! Wait. Hey, asshole – did that backpack of yours pay for that seat? What’s the fare for backpacks these days anyway? Speaking of backpacks, you, hot shot, oblivious lumbering lummox behind me, do you feel that resistance? Yeah? That resistance is your backpack pressing against my head. I know I am short, but I am not Smurfette – I am life-sized, very real, and very tempted to push you onto the tracks, you and your backpack. But since that is very un-Hanna-Barbera-like, and very un-AA-like, I’ll just give you dirty looks instead.

* OK, not much improvement there. I hear there’s some Step that addresses my hatred for mankind (JK), but until then, I shall remain the Bitchy but Silent Subway Etiquette Police.

* OK, just re-read that. I swear I am not a sociopath.

New Patient Questionnaire, Question 7 – “How often do you drink?”

My answer as an Active Alcoholic ~

“Sometimes”. (Read: Sometimes I drink before work. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I drink at work. Sometimes I drink alone. Sometimes I drink 300-lb. men under the table. Sometimes I drink and wake up knowing where I am. Sometimes I drink and wake up inRevere. Sometimes I drink cooking wine – ok. once, but I didn’t realize it until after I drank the whole bottle. Sometimes I drink and pretend I’m having a conversation with my boyfriend Jason Priestly about life after 90210. Sometimes I drink and my boyfriend Jason Priestly tells me there is no life after 90210 worth living if I am not in it).

If you answered “sometimes”, answer questions 7a-e

7a. do you drink socially? – “yes” (sometimes)

7b. if yes, how many drinks do you consume? – “yes” (sometimes)

7c. do you drink alone? – “no” (I have 3 cats)

7d. do you feel sick or uneasy after a night of drinking? “no” (as opposed to what? I feel normal. I don’t know what you’re talking about).

7e. when you drink, do you drink beer, wine, or liquor? “yes” (are beer and wine not liquor? This changes everything).

My answer as a Recovering Alcoholic ~

“Never”.

If you answered “never”, skip questions 7a-e, and move on to question 8.

Booyah!

Hi!

In super early sobriety, when describing or talking about myself, I used every mean and hurtful name you can imagine – no experience or feeling or body part was spared from my wrath and self-battery. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Everyone said, “Listen to yourself. Would you ever call anyone those names?”. To which I replied, “Yes?”. Oh give me a break – not to their faces! I’ve come a long way – really, I have. My heart now bleeds for everyone, almost to distraction. But lately, in light of recent personal affairs, I am catching myself using such names as – damn it!!! damn it!!! damn it!!! damn it!!! (Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue). I am actually still talking about names I call myself (riiiiiight). So, starting today, I am going to try to replace such mean and hurtful names with “sweet angel from heaven”, including, and perhaps especially, when referring to myself.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been pondering what the difference is between a hopeless romantic and a psychotic. When you think about it, isn’t it tomato tomahto? Why is hearing and seeing only what I want to hear and see any different than hallucinating and hearing voices, in both cases, absolutely certain everything I’ve heard and seen and experienced is factual, despite evidence and logic to the contrary? I am trying to accept that fact that My Truth is not necessarily The Truth, and these truths may have little resemblance to each-other. In my little world, My Truth saw the relationship only as love songs and roses, then splat! But when the relationship ended, My Truth saw the relationship only as stab wounds and mind fucks – period. In sobriety, I’m learning (the hard way) that The Truth is probably somewhere in-between those extremes. He also has His Truth which justifies his behavior as a sweet angel from heaven. He’s not perfect. I’m not perfect. We together are a nightmare, so I really am trying to close the book on this. I heard everything I needed to hear yesterday – I get it, I get it. Like an innocent but bitchen babe surfing a gnarly wave of out-of-control emotions in an ocean of tears, which is a hell of a lot better than an ocean of booze (drama intended), I wipe out and get eaten by a shark. The end.

The End (cont’d): Speaking of hopeless romantics and mental illnesses, if you are looking for true love, beware the sweet angel from heaven who claims to be a “hopeless romantic”. In addition to taking your anti-depressants, you may also consider taking heed. It may behoove you to ask them up front to define their terms before you get swept away by thinking that your ideas of “hopeless romantic” jive. They very well may be polar opposites. You might swoon at their claim and be expecting a future of, yes, love songs and roses, but wind up inconsolable, alone with that dire obsession to drink – not because the anguish is too much to endure, but because you need the empty bottles to smash through their windows. I am TOTALLY kidding. (You’ll never be alone in AA).

My sweet sponsor is looking on the bright side. She said that this is good practice and that I am handling this well – staying on track with meetings, reaching out to other women, not drinking. This has happened to me before, you know. You don’t say! My sponsor asked me how I handled these situations in the past. Umm… I recall a scene back in ’01 (maybe?) where I burst into the dude’s house drunk and wailed uncontrollably. He calmly said something like, “what the hell?”. I turned around and left, walked home, wailing. I made a much bigger scene on my commute than in his house. I was very composed and mature this time. I didn’t go to his house, beat my chest, and wail like a Latin American soap opera star. Instead, I beat my chest and wailed like a Latin American soap opera star to my sponsor over the phone in the privacy of my (lonely lonely lonely) bedroom until 2:00 this morning. I’m actually kind of proud of myself. Amazing what sobriety does for one’s self control! I feel jilted and angry (and used, murderous, disgusted, and so on), but this time, only 1% of my crazy got off the leash. The other 99% I managed to keep in the kennel. Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog.

Another volume of “When Love Attacks” down the disposal in order to protect the guilty and ensure what better be the mother-load of all pay offs. Another annoying suggestion reluctantly taken…

Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue. Nothing pays off like restraint of pen and tongue.

Hi!

When I say “they say” it’s safe to say that “they” are friends in the program. They say that my only job in the first year is to not drink. No one said anything, not a word, about having to be nice. So, I am going to squeeze as much mean as I can into the next 15 days. So, out come the bloody claws of the Slushkitty. Just kidding. Well, I’ll do my best to be nice anyway – progress not perfection, right?

Perhaps you think you know where my first stop on Mean Street will be? No! I am not going to be mean at all, nope. Not in the slightest. I’m not going to mention CM again, except as a reference for what to avoid. There – that is as mean as I will get… especially because, in the spirit of trying to be nice, I just had to scrap another 45 pages of Hell Hath No Fury blog material aimed at CM!!! (Shakes fist at sky).

Anyway, I am so confused by all of this love bullshit. I can’t get out of my own way – I feel like I am stuck in glue. I’m so discouraged, and I feel like I haven’t learned a thing about having healthy relationships. Not true, they say! They say I learned about what I need and what I want because I wasn’t getting it. Yeah, I guess. Whatever you say. Those red flags that I didn’t see with CM (sorry) that normal people, or even abnormal people with marginal self-esteem, do see, were, to me, ticker-tape in my One Woman Parade of Crazy, celebrating the fact that my heart isn’t cold and dead – it’s just retarded. But because of all this whining (when I raise my hand in meetings lately, people roll their eyes and get up and go to the bathroom or take a smoke break), I am getting remarkable amounts of tough love from everyone. I feel like it’s a badge of honor, this tough love. I’m almost at the one year line, and people have stopped pussyfooting around me, they call it like they see it now. They think I am fearless and bulletproof, a COOL KIDS badass who can bravely navigate through life’s hazards, scathed but stronger, tougher, hard as nails. It makes me want to jump up and down and clap, and hug everyone, and put a gold star on my forehead!

But yeah, I’m not going to talk about CM anymore for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which is that I am getting creepy(er). Also, because every second I spend making myself crazy trying to understand what I did wrong is a second I am closing my heart to someone who deserves and will appreciate this hot mess of love. And also because I fell in love with a heroin addict at a commitment on Tuesday night. …

Besides the abscess on the back of his elbow, he was SO CUTE! What a looker! A dreamboat really! We didn’t waste any time. We were outside during the break and talked under the canopy of what I understand to be a pretty swank detox. This was our conversation:

What he said: Do you have an extra cigarette?
What I said: Of course! Here you go.
What I thought: I’ve been waiting all my life to give you this “extra” cigarette, this one I wasn’t planning to smoke, because it belongs to you, just like my heart.

What he said: You’re really beautiful.
What I said: That is so nice of you! Thank you!
What I thought: I love you. We’ll beat this.

What he said: I can’t believe I am here.
What I said: Have you been sober before?
What I thought: You know our love is forbidden, right?

What he said: Yes, I had about 7 years, then I relapsed after my ex-girlfriend picked up again.
What I said: I’m sorry. That must have been terrible, really hard.
What I thought: So, you’re single?

I actually did not sign up for COOL KIDS to find a boyfriend. I actually signed up for COOL KIDS to get rid of a boyfriend, among other reasons. Over the course of this past year, I’ve had a lot of imaginary boyfriends. By this, I mean imaginary romances with real guys. Our love so complete and subtle, they often are unaware that these love affairs are happening, so I am always dramatically mourning some unrequited love. But lately, these relationships seem to be materializing in reality and spouting red flags which I am reeeeeeallllllly going to try to see from now on. I admit I like the attention – I mean, this is what happens when you’re sexy. Hmmm. I am probably not ready to date. I am probably really not ready to date when my imaginary conversation with my imaginary boyfriend goes something like this:

What he says: I love you.
What I say: You need help.
What I think: You need help.

Hi!

When exactly did being sensitive become the emotional equivalent of having herpes? What kind of world would it be if everyone was frigid and pragmatic? That’d be like if everyone in the world exclusively wore earth tones. I’m going to try not to bore you with my self-indulgent love woes re: CM. CM was just my first sober relationship, so CM could really have been any adorable ice cube. My emotional vulnerability has very little to do with him. CM and I simply wanted different things. He just wanted what he wanted when he wanted it without having to deal with the “tiresome” regard for my feelings. I just wanted a boyfriend with a soul. Totally incompatible. Anyway, my sensitive nature is organic and seasoned – people have been complaining about it since forever, and 20 years of substance abuse likely didn’t help. So, it is not entirely CM’s fault that things didn’t work out. (Well well! Would you look at who’s taking some responsibility!!!).

My relationship with CM (that could have been with anyone really) was not born under a bad star – it was born under an entire rotten galaxy, a galaxy not far far away, but close close clooooooooooose up, threatening my sometimes slippery grip on sobriety. From the very beginning, I was on pins and needles just being across the room from him. I wanted to be pressed up against him, wrapped around him, in a Kung Fu death grip of hugs. I wanted to curl up inside him and nap there forever (my fair blond angel.. sigh…). Maybe it was that I didn’t want him to see me, literally and figuratively see me, from a little distance. He might be able to see how awkward I was – not knowing even basic stuff like when a dreamy gaze becomes a creepy stare, or at roughly what time during that first date should ask for the keys to his apartment. I didn’t want him to be able to sense my exposed nerves, or to be able to see how uncomfortable and anxious I was at the thought of letting him (or anyone) maybe get to know this sober me [and here’s where I start descending the self-defeatist spiral: and therefore opening up the possibility of him (or anyone) rejecting me or just not finding this sober me attractive, this sincere me who really is trying to appear normal. If sincere, sober me got rejected, then what? It’s all I have. If that is not enough, why bother go on living in this cruel cruel world? But really, would it ever be enough for anyone? They say yes, of course, in time, when you’re ready. I want to know when and I want to know when now]. But then again, maybe I wanted to always be glued to him so that I wouldn’t be able to see him. Oh, CM, CM, how perfect you were! I would hold my breath before you would speak because I didn’t want you to ruin everything. I would hold my breath and not speak at all because I didn’t want to ruin everything (until I spoke and ruined everything). I didn’t want you (or us) to smudge. You (and we) smudged, oh yeah, baby. You (and we, but mostly you) smudged to the tune and birth of 23 (and counting!) resentments – 23 resentments with their deafening screams of “DANGER!!! DANGER!!!” that were so deafening, that I was, in fact, deaf to them.

Despite sounding lovelorn, I’m not really that sad – 1% homicidal, 9% sad, 15% angry, 20% disappointed, and 55% discouraged. One of a handful of absolute impossibilities that miraculously was realized as very possible in sobriety was the shattering of my certainty that, without a partner and children, life would be meaningless. I had absolutely gone and done it this time, ruined my life for sure. Why bother getting sober when there’s no chance of happiness ahead. Being drunk had never equaled happiness, but being sober and therefore keenly aware of how badly polluted my past was, as well as the assumption that I’d pollute my future, too, would surely be too painful to bare sober. It may have been that time that the small human on the T with it’s huge intrusive transportation vehicle opened it’s face and made this horrible, horrible shrill that made my skin crawl, and ruined the rest of my afternoon – I don’t know. But seemingly out of the blue, I thought, “Maybe I don’t even want children? Could this be??”. I felt like a boulder was lifted off my arm, like that movie with my boyfriend James Franco. Tears streaming down my face, kissing strangers on the Red Line, I wanted to praise God, and scream from the mountaintops, “I DON’T WANT KIDS! I DON’T WANT KIDS!”. Cut to: a few weeks later, in bed with CM (could have been anyone really), I was daydreaming about how our kids would look – my curls but his color hair, his lips, his is kind of weird, so my , it’s a toss-up on the eyes. I asked him how many vacation days he had because I had a few weeks (amazing what being sober does to one’s vacation and sick days – so many!!) and we should spend them in bed, just like this, two peas in a pod, two pieces of a puzzle. He said he was allergic to cats, and I said, “You can get allergy shots for that”, but what I was thinking was, “You’ll need to get allergy shots for that”. Cut to: a couple months later, CVS. I’m buying tampons and randomly on the shelf was a book of baby names, Roberta Flack singing our romantic love joke song, I started crying and had to leave the store. So much for having a fulfilling and happy life without a partner and children. Back to Square One.

Everyone told me, or “suggested”, that it was a really bad and risky idea getting into a relationship in early sobriety. I did anyway, and I can live with that. I thought maybe it was because the focus would become the relationship and not my sobriety, so my program would not get my attention, which I agree, it really needs. What’s the big deal? I’m in this for forever, and you know how I feel about being rushed. Maybe someone in the distance was yack yack yacking about how it is like pouring Miracle Grow on your character defects, exposing all your insecurities, uncovering yet more insecurities you didn’t even know you had (Oh, God, are you kidding me? There are more??? Possible?). I didn’t listen, and I can live with that, but it makes me 100% not want to leave the house. I might look at another boy, well, I can practically guarantee that I will look at another boy (it could be anyone really), and ask him about those vacation days…

Hi!

Picture it: South Boston, 2012. A 40-year-old recovering alcoholic and drug addict sits in front of her Mac (which she still doesn’t know how to use), one hand trying to type something kicky and interesting, the other hand holding her cat’s head like a softball. This girl has the material – 20 solid years of bad ideas to cringe and laugh and write and learn about. This girl has the time – being a grouchy, disgruntled, and just generally bad employee during the day, and, unexpectedly in sobriety, a night owl. This girl is poised to write – finally, after decades of having the “pause” button stuck on any creative expression. This girl, however, did not count on her goddamn cat having other plans for her hands and concentration. This girl is me.

So, I’m Cara. A pleasure! I believe the best way to make my acquaintance is to dive on in to Caraland! Welcome to present day! Sunday was a hell of a day – let’s start there.

Against the recommendation of EVERY SINGLE PERSON in COOL KIDS, I got into a relationship in my first year of sobriety. I didn’t even want to meet this guy, let alone have a relationship with him, but some fucked up g-force thrust us together. In my romantic delusion, when telling the tale, I say it was all over after that first introduction – I’m a goner, lovesick, smitten. A timeless, whirlwind and endless romance would ensue. Love at first smile – o! The face on this one! You should see him! My darling, my sweet baby, at last we meet, hand in glove, hand in hand. Blah fuckedy blah blah. It ended on Sunday. I spent all day yesterday drafting the first entry for my Slushkitty. It was all about my disemboweled bliss. The draft was practically dripping blood, as I danced on it in hiking boots (which are, you may not know, considered a lethal weapon in Massachusetts), googling painful ways for him to die (being stung by 1000 jellyfish made me smile). But then I had to reevaluate what this blog is about, which is love and recovery. Had to set the jellyfish free and start from scratch. No jellyfish in this tank. No, sir.

I got an obnoxious dose of reality and recovery on Sunday – just because someone is in recovery, doesn’t mean they’re not an insufferable asshole (just kidding – oooooo feel the sting of the jellyfish!). But really, I’m not ready for a lovey-dovey relationship. It’s like trying to run a marathon when you just learned to tie your shoelaces. And about love, (get your barf bags out – I think this is going to be much too sweet for anyone’s stomach), I learned I have gobs to give. In this relationship, my gobs bounced right off him – he didn’t want them. I am very sad although it was only really a brief time that we did whatever the hell it was we were doing together. (And a girl doesn’t live on Steps alone, if you know what I mean, so there’s that – I am depressed about that, too). I reached out on Sunday and yesterday to my friends in and out of the fellowship, and the love was there. It was just there and I did not question it. I didn’t even think about it. It was there above all else. It was the center. It’s the foundation of every friendship I have. Love’s where it’s at. Word. Why would I want to be in a loveless relationship anyway? It would seem unnatural, really. Yet I know all of this and still, ten minutes ago I was weeping in CVS because our romantic inside joke Roberta Flack song was playing.

ANYway… Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day, and the parade was Sunday. For those of you not familiar with South Boston, it’s historically a sort of gritty, working-class Irish section of Boston, and where I call home. People flock to Southie for the parade every year so they can throw up on streets outside their own goddamn zip code. I was in a panic about being home on Sunday – not fearing I’d drink (what authentic alcoholic would EVER go to the Southie parade?? The bars are so packed, you’d seriously never get served, if you even got in. Good alcoholics stock up days in advance, and sit on their stoop, or stock up days in advance and sit on their couch and watch re-run after re-run of “Law and Order”) – but instead fearing I’d mouth off and tell the wrong townie chick to shut up and end up getting pummeled. At one point, there was such a hullabaloo outside that I pressed my face against my bedroom window and looked down to the street to see some drunk jackass on a skateboard with a beer in each hand, giving another drunk jackass with a beer in each hand a piggyback a ride down the street on said skateboard. They kept falling, howling, getting up, then trying again. I bet you they’re still wicked sore today. My house is two blocks from the parade route, close enough to clearly hear The Call of The Meathead.

I ended up sleeping until 2:00 and spent a while writing a thoughtful email to – we’ll call him “CM”. CM did not care to read the email, and with a very brief and sarcastic reply, we were over, just over, lickety-split, just like that! Whimpering and crushed, I find a Cool Kids meeting in Southie that started at 7:30 – I think the parade ended around 4:00. I ventured out into the post-apocalyptic parade streets – barf everywhere, beer cans and big red plastic cups everywhere, surprisingly pizza everywhere, people passed out in doorways and stumbling down the streets and off sidewalks, paddy wagons and cop cars with their constant flashing blue lights, some fights but fewer than I recall from previous years, people holding each-other up as they walked into traffic, cars barreling by, way over the speed limit to get the hell away from this post-parade holy nightmare.

The meeting was OK. There was one drunk lady, a whole bunch of 20-somethings in wife-beaters and sideways baseball hats, and a bunch of heroin addicts. T’was a balmy evening, so they kept the church door open. The juxtaposition was funny – the police sirens and Calls of the Meatheads outside, the alkies and addicts inside talking about how grateful they are not to be outside, getting stabbed or arrested. And then there’s me, weepy me, the first one with my hand up, saying I wish I was Drunk Girl on the Corner. We’d both have a debilitating and green (get it?) hangover the next day, but at least she’d be too physically sick to be able to feel the debilitating, green, emotional hangover. But I didn’t want to drink and I didn’t want to kill myself. For so long, these were my only options. Everyone in the meeting raised their hands and spoke after I did, and holy hell! These poor bastards! So many stories of deaths, accidentally clubbing old ladies, and mugging priests! Jesus!!! I’m just moping about my broken heart! Pain is pain, but still – mugging a priest? So, I leave the meeting, wade through the same St. Patrick’s Day road kill, traffic and hostile drivers. But can’t they see I am coming from a Cool Kids meeting? Can’t they see that I am at the crosswalk obeying traffic rules, walking a straight line? Can’t they see my shiny new liver? Why aren’t they applauding me for being sober this year? I stayed sober despite being alone and broken-hearted. This is a feat worth recognizing, Southie, my friend. You have my address. I’ll keep an eye out for the fruit basket.