A Housewife's Journey

What's the message, God?

2010-03-03T15:08:00.003-06:00

After the ultrasound, they'd told me that the fetus was no bigger than 8 weeks - I was supposed to be 12. It had passed a month earlier - I was amazed that your body can still maintain its pregnant state for that long. Even act as if it were still pregnant, because I was assured my stomach was slowly growing! Being from a medical field, I knew that biologically, that miscarriages occur because something is biologically incompatible with life, but it became important for me to know exactly why. I pushed beyond my husband's opinion for a chromosomal study to be done. There was some part of me that felt that I had done some kind of danger to my body in my year and a half of drug usage that might have caused its fate. Maybe my blood pressure was off, or it affected its heart somehow. Who knows. But I wanted a definite reason. Turned out it was an extra allelle on one of the chromosones. Not my fault. And it was a boy. Which made me smile. We hadn't told our kids yet - not til after an amniocentesis would have been done and I knew we'd carry the fetus full term. I knew Mariah would be jumping in her skin with excitement about a baby, no matter what the sex was. Ian, I think he'd have a hard time connecting to a baby sibling given his age difference (he would have been 12), however a boy might have been easier for him. A little brother he could show the world to...

This was a small part of the sadness that overshadowed me at that time. There were so many little moments that were coming up in our future that I was looking forward to. Telling the kids, how much excitement we'd share in having a newborn in the house, feeling life move within me, the very first moments of birth shared in the hospital room between Jim, myself and the baby, that new baby smell, nursing in a rocker in the middle of the night, his small fist clasped around my little finger, walking hand in hand with that same fist, now a toddler, grasping onto my finger......that list was growing in my sad reflection.

It was such an up and down emotional rollercoaster for the next several weeks. After the D & C, they said to expect cramping later, but I'd not felt much at all. I'd spend days in bed, feeling listless, empty, barren in the finality of it all. Then the sun would shine, or I'd sit in church with our whole family and feel such an UP feeling. That life was good. My family - and I - was strong! After awhile, I could admit to feeling, underneath it all, *relieved* that He took this upon Himself. Not that I believed He killed the fetus, but that He allowed it to happen. Especially at the time that it did. Upon returning home after my visit to parents, that Monday, I was scheduled for the CVS - a procedure in which they take a miniscule part of the fetal sac and study it for abnormalities in the fetus. It can be risky. I can imagine the guilt I'd feel if I'd made it to that appointment, and experienced a miscarriage afterwards. Surely I'd feel I'd caused it. So there was a big underlying feeling of relief that it happened naturally, before I mucked it up in any way.

Then become teary later for feeling that way.

The biggest struggle in having this miscarriage was understanding God's plan - but honestly, isn't that what we all struggle with most of our lives with *anything* that happens? It shouldn't be any great surprise that I kept coming back to that.

That was where I continually got stuck. I felt so *strongly* that this was His plan for me. Honestly and fully letting go, and not being willful in the image I saw in my life was a GARGANTUAN first in my life. I'd never before been able to just let God have His way with me! (ooo, sounds sacreligious!! ) Never Had I been so able to just willingly accept that which I adamantly did not want and just trust in Him knowing He'd take care of me. He'd give me strength to face my fears of tomorrow. And in doing so, it gave me SUCH amazing peace and awareness and serenity! I wasn't sure of the outcome; I was so fearful of how we'd work a baby into our lives....but for the first time in my life, I felt sure in His plan and presence in my life. I knew He'd be there with me giving me strength that I didn't realize I had. And I was pretty much at peace with all of that. That was unfathomable to me, peace with that?!

So, it was such a shock that He'd change the plan on me. What's the message?? If I had gained such peace in accepting the plan, why take it away?!

After much deliberation, writing, sharing in meetings, it occured to me that it was likely never in His plan for me to actually give birth. In my understanding now, once again, I don't think God purposely kills fetuses, just that He knew from the beginning that mine wouldn't make it to birth. But I needed to go through with what I did to help me realize His awesome power. I needed to be able to let go absolutely and just trust in Him to realize that He gives me strength beyond my imagination for my own life. To be able to succumb to that which I'd NEVER be able to accept on my own. With Him, I have strength and power beyond my wildest dreams....to handle WHATEVER....even if it's so far from my OWN plan/vision/desire for my own life.

I had never acknowledged that even though I never gave birth that the learning and progress I - and we, as a couple - was valuable despite. Knowledge and understanding that we could use now -- needed to use now despite not having a newborn join us in a few months. God sent me that pregnancy, the Holy Spirit working within me to KEEP it, trusting in God's plan, so that He could save me and my family in many ways:
1. to quit smoking (which I've never taken back up. I'd not quit before without being pregnant, there was likely not anything foreseeable that would have made me quit so quickly and successfully)
2. to learn to give in to Him completely, trusting that there was a plan beyond my understanding
3. to learn to stand up for my needs despite the possibility of hurting/disappointing others
4. to recognize the need for changes between my husband and I
5. to embrace and DO all I can with EACH stage of my childrens' lives before they take off and leave us. I could recognize their time with us was so short.

I had thought His making me pregnant was sending these messages to me. I never anticipated that I'd still gain the benefit of them without giving birth.

It also gave me new strength to look at refraining from drinking. It was still my biggest struggle. Not actually in giving it up - that part was easy. But seeing it as necessary. And frankly, I just didn't want to do it. I'd not abused it in the past; I wanted to be able to drink as I always had done before the drug addiction took over. I could accept that it was a risky choice to do so, but I admitted to wanting to go back to a place in my life when I could safely do that again. Never drinking again was certainly NOT in the vision for my life. Yet I think this experience through Him was showing me that I have so much more strength to see past my own vision for my life, letting go absolutely. I wasn't sure what this meant for me tomorrow, I didn't know if I would be this accepting and strong in the future, in fact, I knew I wouldn't. But in that moment, I know He was trying to tell me how much strength I had with Him in my life, that He's always there despite my own stubborness to hold onto my own plan, and to remind me of the peace and serenity that could come with just letting go and trusting in Him.

Wow...what a message.

The End of New Beginnings

2010-03-02T13:06:00.002-06:00

The trip to New York was a great break from my normal routine. A time to separate from my family, regroup, and contemplate our future. But also a time to feel useful to my parents, a time to begin healing with them too. My mother and I had a lot of history - much of it not perceived favorably in my head. It was good to be at her side, seeing her as human and fallible - a flawed, but lovable being who at all times, was just doing the best she could. My dad too, who I had placed so high on a pedestal, being with him daily gave me a fresh perspective of "humaness" too. Still my numero uno, but living with him, I could see his shortcomings, the weaknesses he carried as I was growing up, yet still look at him with love and forgiveness.

We traveled together each day on the train to the hospital downtown - a 45 minute ordeal - after spending the morning together working out at the gym. It's always interesting going back to my parents' home in my adulthood. I can feel their pride as they walk me around to their friends - my dad expressing a quieter sense of accomplishment. Always good at first impressions, I'd gladly stand in the umbrella of his admiration, cajoling his friends as we'd join in an exercise class. Then, ever quiet, we'd hop on a train to see Mom, hoping she'd not be too upset with us for arriving too late, immerse ourselves in a book for me, the newspaper for him. Later that evening, we'd rush to catch the last train home so that we could catch some reality tv show that evening while sharing a light dinner. My dad's a funny one - we always joke that he's a "metrosexual". Loves the Hallmark movies, the WE channel (for women), figure skating, and reality TV (Dancing with the Stars and Bachelor/Bachelorette being his favs). That peaceful togetherness we shared was so satisfying in its simplicity. I'll never forget that serene togetherness we shared.

Mom's surgery was uneventful and thankfully, successful. She was in the hospital for a short time which, again, was a blessing. Nights had always been difficult for her because she typically had a hard time sleeping, even while at home. Add to that a nursing staff that is barely adequate for the sleeping hours in the hospital, being alone, and a bed that's not your own and you understand her discomfort. She was always anxious for our arrival, if only for company. As a nurse, she understood the importance of activity and pushed herself to get up and move even when she didn't feel like it. Ever the co-dependent, competitive, people pleaser, she was adamant that we help her walk the hallways so that she could boast about her daily progress, despite the continued pain in recovery. Not a day would pass that she'd break down in tears of thankfulness that I took time away from my family to come and be with her; it meant the world to her.

Honestly, though, they didn't really need me too much. My mom is well liked in the community; they both have lots of friends. Especially through their "gym" - it's more of a well-care center, connected to a hospital. It provides benefits on your medical insurance, providing by computer at each machine, information about your health and then back to your file, notice of what you accomplished at the gym. Whatever Obama may be considering for health care reform, I think it'd be ideal for a system like this to be in place at all health clubs that adjust your insurance premiums (or goverment coverage) by how well you take care of yourself. But I digress....

We were stocked up to the brim with food being brought over by well meaning friends. Dad and I were invited to friends in the evenings. And as little time that we spent at home, we had little in the way of tidying the house. A quick deep clean the day before she arrived home was the hardest we worked, as we prepared for her critical eye.

As delightful of a visit as this way for me, I was shocked and anxious one late afternoon to find that I was spotting. Determined not become overly panicked, I put a call into my OB/GYN at home, leaving word through her nurse. Early in my pregnancy with Mariah I'd started to spot. I knew that it wasn't a definite sign of a problem.

Later that evening though, with still no call from my OB and the beginnings of small cramps low in my belly I became a bit more concerned. I called the OB again, leaving word this time with her answering service. I was due to head home on the plane in the morning, so I knew I could get in to see her the following day, but I was unsure if I should be traveling if this indeed was the beginning of a miscarriage. I called my husband in my slowly rising panic. The bleeding was slowly increasing. It was in times like this that I was glad to be the wife of a physician. Never one to pull the "doctor's wife" card, sadly, at times it did get you more immediate attention.

He called late that night after finally talking with her. He wasn't impressed. She acted almost as if he were disturbing her, and highly non-reactive. Several times he had to ask if she was still on the phone. Bottom line, however, she said there was nothing she could do while I was away in NY (surely we understood this), that if this were a miscarriage, that it was supposed to be happening. (our medical backgrounds both understood this already as well) We wanted to know if it was a quick process? Should I get on the plane in the morning? No way to tell, she said. Could happen quickly or over the next several days. Or I could just be bleeding. It happens. Basically, she was little help.

I lay in bed that night with the cramping increasing in equal amounts with my anxiety. I was determined to get on that plane, and prayed that I'd make it home to Jim. My biggest fear was being trapped in the plane's bathroom as I passed a dead fetus into the plane's commode system. Yet every part of my being screamed out to get home to the comfort of my husband's arms.

As much as I'd dreaded the thought of having this baby, in this moment I was petrified that we were going to lose it. Never in my dreams did I think about that possibility. I figured at the very worst, He'd give me a disabled child because of my background; never ever could I have fathomed the baby not making it to delivery.

I prayed through the cramps, hoping for the best, but anticipating the worst each time I used the restroom. Something inside me knew this was over. I don't even remember the plane ride home.

I met Jim at his hospital emergency room, already feeling dead inside. But I held on to hope.

They rushed me into an ultrasound room, using a more sensitive wand inside me to see its contents. The technician said little, excusing herself to ask the doctor to come in and talk with us. She didn't need to, though. I could read it in her retreating silence and Jim's damp eyes.

Endless minutes later, the doctor entered and pulled up the screen before us. There she pointed out a small, yet empty looking sac. Like a sad little cocoon. But missing its tiny butterfly within. It seemed such a short time ago that I looked at that same screen with trepidation at a miniscule beating blip of a heart. We stared now at its dead emptiness.

The knowing within became incredulous in its final reality. I couldn't believe it was ending like this. All the preparation. The incredible mountains of faith I'd climbed to get me to where I was, the sureness of the Holy Spirit telling me to move forward with the birth of this child.

Why? Why? I just couldn't wrap my understanding around it. I was so sure that I was being led by something Divine. Why take it away?

Jim was openly upset as we left the hospital; me, just numb. Speechless. Feeling empty. And still cramping, getting worse.

I pushed to have a D&C performed, scheduling it for the next morning. The doctor said it wasn't necessary, however, a miscarriage could go on for days. And the pain associated with it could be alarming.

I woke from anesthesia the next morning in tears that lasted throughout the day. I don't remember feeling devastated; just numb and empty. And confused. How could this God I so fully handed over my life, more fully than I'd ever done before, take this child from us? Yes, down deep, I could feel a sense of relief that we didn't actually have to go through with everything, but really? I hand my life to you, Lord, I listen, I follow Your lead....and you take it away? Really? What was I missing? Why did you make me go through all of this just to take it away?

Marching Forward

2010-03-01T12:00:00.001-06:00

There was still so much to accomplish; within myself and within our marriage before I'd feel ready to raise another child.

In couples' therapy, Fleet asked that we write each other exactly what we needed in order for our marriage -- and life with a newborn -- to work in future. To try to narrow it down to what was most imperative for success.

Jim had one. Be honest.

I chuckle to myself now - I had ten.

1. Nurture me - I'd always been seen as the rock in the family, and was proud to take it on. I needed Jim to see through that and realize I needed nurturing, pampering and attention too.
2. Respect me - I needed him to accept me as I was; different from the organized, Type A personality that he was, helping me to accept that difference as well.
3. Be open to change - I didn't know what the logistics of our life would be like with a baby, but I needed him to be willing to put the family's needs first over his work. He'd been financially successful enough that he should be able to cut back and be a more integral part of the family unit with this new child.
4. Lay off the sexual tension - and increase our intimate time together, finding ways to touch that wasn't in the bedroom. Holding hands during a walk, rubbing my feet as we watched a movie, massaging my neck as I stood in the kitchen. Without my needing to ask for it. I needed that intimacy back beyond the bedroom.
5. Find more alone time together - Jim and I had always been consistent with going on dates or even taking weekend trips alone together, but during the week it was usually business as usual. Dinner, talk of the children, bedtime duties, then he went to bed himself. Logistically, I wasn't sure how this might happen, just that we needed it.
6. Share the parenting role with me - Set limits, back me up, don't undermine me when I'm not around, and spend more time home with us. Or time alone with *them*.
7. Be self - reliant - He never quite understood/understands what I do all day, thinking that adding one more task to my list was not a big deal. I needed him to realize that there was nothing in me that would allow me to be a slacker, that I *worked* all day too. I asked that he take care of himself - not make me a slave to tasks that he could accomplish on his own. And if he was too tired to do these things at the end of the day, either cut back on his work day so that he wasn't, or make sure they were completed before he went to work in the AM.
8. Encourage me to find healthy modes of "escape" - whether that was escaping at night to be with friends, or becoming involved elsewhere. I encouraged him to hold me accountable for my time, have me followed if needed, but recognize that I needed "girl-time" and time away from my "workplace".
9. Find a spiritual couples retreat together that we'd repeat on a regular basis.
10. Help me parent our children - Funny, I didn't realize til now that I'd basically repeated myself here. Should move parenting up higher on the list. My explanation here, however, acknowledged our differences in strengths of parenting. I was good with limit setting and understanding what they needed - he was much better with persevering, holding strong to what we *agreed* upon - agreeing being the key factor.

****Aside/update - in reliving these imperative requests for our happy marriage, I can say that most have greatly improved, though many require continual revisiting and need my regular reminding. Both to myself and him. I've since given up the anxiety and dissatisfaction of needing to do so; I try to refrain from framing it in an attitude of him not really caring about me. It's been many years of my training him otherwise, my training him that I was super-woman, ultra low maintenance that it will take awhile to show him otherwise, and more importantly, to train ME. To train me that it's important to learn to receive rather than give, to take myself off the pedestal so he has the opportunity to nurture, to be an active father. But most importantly, that I can't ask that he be my therapist. That I need to recognize those co-dependent issues myself (or with a therapist or sponsor), the need to people please, seek self-worth opportunities, the need to OVERdo, and adjust those attitudes myself. I need him to be a supportive in that, in fact a cheerleader for that - but I can't expect him to advocate for something that is ingrained to the opposite in his mind - a way in which allows him to be pampered to. The only thing we have never addressed is finding a couple's retreat which I'd still love to do. He's less open to sharing within a group setting, or even to understanding what a valuable gift that is in the first place (even if no obvious dysfunction is apparent in the marriage). I understand that this will be my doing, my request, and my urging, but also know that he would grumble yet come around. And fully love the experience on the other side.

Personally, I was still attending meetings three times a week and meeting with both my sponsor and my therapist. In light of my pregnancy, I'd smirk thinking of God. I knew in my heart that at least one of the reasons that He'd made this happen was to keep me sober for a full year. That my three month commitment was coming up and that I was no where near close to being ready to drink again. I'd just begun my fourth step in AA with my sponsor - the step in which you looked into your weaknesses/faults/poor decisions (which, for those that I wasn't in denial of, I was quite good at. A good self-basher, I was). But there was much more on the other side of the fourth step which I needed to address, allowing me to emotionally and spiritually heal, before I could think about adding alcohol into the mix. In a 12-step program, there is daily affirmation that God quite often does for you what you can't do for yourself. Looking at my subtlely growing abdomen, I could offer up a small guffah.

I'd change it up from time to time from my regular meetings, though I continued to feel that I was divinely led to each one, each providing a characteristically special gift to me. Yet, to not grow stagnant, out of curiosity, and sometimes out of need, I'd find another meeting. I went once with a newfound friend, newly sober (for a month and a half, who, incidentally, has since disappeared). The meeting was smaller than any of my others - I believe besides my friend and myself, there were four others. In amazement, I learned that one was a pastor! He shared stories of being on religious workshops/retreats and being shocked that not everyone went for a drink at lunch. And humbled when he realized that he was being shunned by the other pastoral staff on his return, because of his inappropriate boisterousness and comments, being told later of how much he wreaked of alcohol.

Addiction is an equal opportunity offender. It doesn't just strike the weak and slime of the earth -- though it certainly lowers many of us to act on that level. That was a good realization for me. There was so much shame involved with using meth-amphetamine, that I was something "less than" for even getting involved - or more, for letting it take control. It was relieving to know that there were active professionals and even the (usually) morally straight, virtuous clergy doing the same thing. That it had nothing to do with some morally deficient gene or inner derangement on my part.

I was also able to look at my alcohol use from another angle. A young college student was one of the other four that sat the table that day. He said he was impressed that I could speak so openly about my drug addiction; that he too had dabbled with drugs quite a bit and although he could admit that he was alcoholic, he was still unwilling to look at his drug use. That maybe, in hearing my bravery in my honesty of my drug use, that he needed to look a bit closer at his own. I responded back (a bit of crosstalk, in the smallness of the group, was tolerated at this meeting)that I was just the opposite. That I could readily see my addiction to stimulants and nicotine as well as addictive behavior in computer usage, but frankly, that I was offended by the suggestion that I might be an alcoholic. There was nothing in my drinking habits that suggested alcoholic behavior. I didn't carry any of the same stories, desperation to use alcohol, or feelings of relief that many of those spoke of around the tables. In fact, I'd become irritated with those that encouraged me in this pregnancy, saying "Just think, you'll be raising this child *sober*!" I WAS sober while raising my kids, I didn't have the same stories of neglect that many of them did. I've since come to understand that "sober" has many definitions, the least of them (for me) being alcohol-free.

On my way home driving in the solitude of the car, however, I began to allow myself to see how much my alcohol usage was increasing at the end of the time I was using drugs. Though I was not hiding bottles, I relocated them to the dining room so it wasn't readily apparent to my family in the open design of kitchen/family room that I was going for a refill. My switching to a coffee cup to drink out of, readily answering that it was wine within if asked, but disguising it from first impression. Though I never lied about my alcohol usage to others, drinking helped me to lie to *myself*. It helped to keep my head in the sand, assuaging those negative feelings so that I could continue to tell myself I was living a happy, fulfilled life. It helped kill the anger.

Hmmmm.

At the same time, my experiences were allowing me to be a mentor to those around me. Part of a 12-step program is in mentoring another as a sponsor, and though I still felt way too new to do that, I couldn't help but utter my new awareness and learning to those around me. My children, my husband, my small group - so many of us living in Christian servitude, and living the life of people-pleaser, but especially my mother. My mother, God love her, who was one of my best and fervent teachers of co-dependency. Not only was I learning to set small boundaries with her, but I was able to help her recognize her own co-dependency with my father so that she could live more in harmony with him rather than complaining about him to me. Especially when I held *him* in such high esteem, it was always difficult to hear.

But more specifically, I was able to use my own learning in adjusting my attitudes about this pregnancy to help her deal with some of her own health issues and upcoming decisions. She had had colon surgery a year before, which had caused subsequent problems that resulted in her being on a clear liquid diet for most of the following *year* in an attempt to correct the problem. Not only that, but the pain and discomfort from the resulting problems caused her to drop out of many of the physical activities that she greatly enjoyed. She'd since seen another doctor that promised her that he could fix the problem, but my mother was extremely fearful of going through another procedure. All doctors could utter assurance and confidence, but she often was left with results that were less than expected. She didn't feel she had it left in her to go through yet another procedure.

Just as I thought I didn't have it in me to go through another pregnancy and child rearing.

I urged her to realize that it didn't have to be the same picture. That she knew SO much more now, that she could make demands for her treatment that she was unaware of before. That she was so much further down the line of understanding and awareness to ever allow it to be the same picture. Even if the worst happened. That the alternative - living her life greatly altered in diet and exercise - was a lifelong, emotional (and physical) strain. Just as the alternative for me (aborting the child) would be a lifelong emotional strain I'd carry.

Thankfully - maybe in part to my mentoring - she signed up for another surgery to correct the first. And I flew out to New York to be with her and my father, helping to alleviate her fears of surgery and recovery, and to provide my father with domestic help.

Little did I realize the trauma that I'd be met with while caring for them.

After Shock

2010-02-04T14:56:00.004-06:00

I'd like to say that once I had that mountaintop experience, feeling God's message and the power He instilled within me so clearly, that it carried me through til delivery (and beyond). Unfortunately, though, I'm only human. I've always felt like I play this game with God of understanding and awareness, then taking my own will back. Even though my will is often fraught with doubt, fear, insecurity, disillusionment, and confusion, I still want to go back there and dabble with it. Think that I must know better.

So here I was, coming off this big high from the retreat, but within days I was back into indecision and fear. I knew that I had a choice. That Jim would understand termination. In fact, after my aha moments of the weekend, I'd had to talk *him* into keeping the baby. In many ways, I still feel as though he was just playing "devils' advocate" so that I didn't feel any pressure from him to go through with it, but in that first week after the retreat, I was definitely the one that said, "This is God's will made from our love. We can't kill it."

And then I'd have a bad week. I'd decided that I needed to quit smoking. In the past, I'd easily quit when I'd first found out I was pregnant with Ian and Mariah (taking it back up eventually with both) but this time felt forced. The pregnancy was still often a fearful thought for me; to then be urged into giving up my "last crutch", it wasn't an easy undertaking. However, I knew it was the best thing I could do to ensure that the pregnancy was healthy. I can still remember that (hopeful) last cigarette.

It was the Monday after my Sunday high. Kids and husband gone, I'd decided I'd have my last cig in blissful solitude, sitting in the hottub with a cup of coffee on a gloriously sunny (but chilly) January morn. Raced my naked butt out our masterbathroom door, the rich scent of coffee wafting behind me, cig in hand and jumped quickly into the steaming water. Only to find that the water, steaming against a chilly air, was less than 90 degrees. That's not too hot in January against your 98.6 degree body. My temperature of choice in the winter is a steamy 102.

Shock. Damn it! The electric was out on the hot tub. Within moments my body was shivering. Yet I was so determined for my image of solitude, that I wouldn't give it up. I sunk deeper into the water, just my chin and smoking fingers of my right hand peeking above the surface. Fingers beginning to numb, my lips shaking, I sucked away my (intended) last ciggie in "glorious solitude".

Goes to show ya how determined I am for my own way. Funny, that.

Later that day, in the car on the way to an AA meeting later and once again after, I'd had cravings, but not so bad that I'd had to light up. I could easily pass it off as habit. That's where I usually smoked. It's just normal associations. Car = smoke.

However, later I travelled to the grocery store to prepare for a late birthday meal for Jim. We'd not celebrated that weekend because of the retreat, so I had the intention to create a special evening for him. Complete with his favorite dinner and well-thought out gifts (that I'd not thought out prior to that afternoon). I wanted him to know how greatly I appreciated his support and love. While waiting in the check-out lane, I was met with a beligerant, screaming (tired) toddler. Just as adorable as she could be, but mad as hell. Watching in trepidation, I thought, Oh God.....I can't do that again! Furthermore, and more importantly, a very strong thought: I didn't WANT to. I felt compassion for the mom, trying to converse my understanding of her tiredness, embarrassment and frustration through my gaze, but moreso, I had a very intense sense of "Better you than me!"

The more my skin crawled in the screaming and the thought of being in that very same position within a year, I REALLY needed a cigarette. At the same time, I beat myself up, knowing that I really should quit, should use the motivation of pregnancy to help me quit, needed to give up spending all that money on another addictive drug, hated to be feel guilty with any part of my life anymore, needing to hide the smoking from my kids. Knew that it would affect my pregnancy. Then thought, if God really wanted me to have this child, that He'd also keep it from harm while I obstinately held onto that last addiction. And felt guilty for that, too.

But I couldn't handle it....I gave in, grabbing a pack from the shelf in line, and bursting into it with a great fury on the way home in the car. Giving myself forgiveness because I was able to acknowledge the amount of stress I was under (which was a new skill), I puffed away til I got home, running through my mind what kind of help I'd need to quit this time. Acupuncture? Hypnosis? Some ear thing I'd heard about from my internist? I wasn't sure, but was able to acknowledge needing acute help since I wasn't internally motivated to quit.

The rest of that day was spent in a rat race trying to complete my picture of "special" for Jim - which I never could entirely fulfill. I was feeling far from God, far from my 12-step program, and generally far from serenity as I ran the guinea pig's wheel round and round, feeling my efforts weren't good enough and that I didn't have much time left. Add to that frenzied emotional turmoil a son who was anxious to have over a handful of friends. My adamant "No" was a shock to him and myself. I could feel the stress of the day building. Whether hormonal or after shock of reeling so high, I could do nothing more than sink to my knees in tears. What a weak tit! Then sneak outside around the side of the house to have yet another smoke. Once again, needing to forgive myself - after two full cigarettes of beating myself up. I realized I needed to give myself a BREAK! I run around nutty, trying to push myself so hard to be "perfect", undermining what I might be feeling, so that I can do more for others. I couldn't see that it was a tremendous task to put together what I'd had in mind in ONE day. I didn't give myself the allowance of going through one helluva week - full of a myraid of emotions; the contradiction of shock, panic and pure joy to name a few.

What the hell had I been learning up til now?!

I was a basketcase.....and we wanted to have a BABY?!

Thinking of that, I was still so very scared. I knew in my heart that God would carry me through, that things would be different, but heck...I knew that wouldn't erase all the hard stuff. Those tantrums. The long nights. The tiredness. The need to work counterintuitively on a daily basis. Like salmon swimming upstream. I just wasn't sure all the time that we should do this.

I marched forward, though, and later that week went to my OB/GYN to confirm the pregnancy. Though she had identified the gestational age a bit younger than I'd anticipated, everything looked fine. We even saw a small beating heart under sonogram. Twinges of love, guilt, sadness, and excitement intermixed within me then, as I watched that small blip beating on the screen. I looked down at my still flat belly covered in jelly, thinking I'd never be this thin again. (sigh) I could kiss that meth weight goodbye forever.

In private, one of my husband's friends, an ostetrician, told me that I could take a pill that would abort the pregnancy up to 7 weeks gestation. I was shocked - I thought it was just a few days past a missed menstrual cycle. Going online later to research it, I understood that there'd be heavy bleeding and cramping, but that it could happen within the quiet of our home with Jim at my side. However, the more I read of this RU-486 pill, for the first time since becoming pregnant, I became horribly nauseaus, even to the point of feeling as though I might faint. I hurriedly switched off the screen in angst, dropping to the floor with my head between my knees. I felt sure that I was so attune to the Holy Spirit right now, that it was a strong message to me to quit looking into killing this fetus. I had power beyond my wildest imagination if I only leaned on Him; I had only to remember my weekend, standing in the pulpit to affirm that.

But in the same breath, knowing in my gut that this was VERY MUCH in His plan for whatever reason, I'd begin to feel more fearful for the next hurdle. What IF the baby is "damaged" in some way? What if I, given my age and who knows WHAT I'd done in a year and a half of meth, delivered a special needs baby? For some reason, I could imagine that scenario well because I used to work in the field. Of course God would think I could handle that. Yet I felt that would be the last straw - I just couldn't handle the time and energy a special needs child would require. I'd have to terminate -- yet, how would that decision at that time be any less of a thwarting of His will? How can I live THAT decision down any easier than the selfish reasoning of not wanting a baby altogether?

I just wanted all my bases covered. I wanted to fully research all my options.

I visited Planned Parenthood next. In a way, it felt like wasted time because I'd almost fully come to the conclusion that we were going through with this pregnancy. 99% of the time, I felt I was being led by the Holy Spirit. To just trust. But I still needed to talk openly to someone about options. She told me, "God doesn't make mistakes! You may feel unable to handle it - but when does He ever hand us large tasks that we feel ready for??" Yet she did, without preamble, objectively lay out the options. And recommended against RU-486. Although yes, you could do it within the quiet of your home, she said it could take anywhere from a half hour to 8 hours. With no pain medicine. You are on your own. And it's not pretty.

She told me about amniocentesis and CVS. CVS could be done as easly as 10 weeks old, with results by 12 weeks. (I made an appointment that afternoon.) She also gave me recommendations of facilities that perform abortions if I chose that option.

I walked out feeling assured I was doing the right thing, and well versed on what to expect and where to go if I should need to make a different decision further along.

My parents, when I told them, were incredulous. Thought we were crazy to think about having a child right now. Though my parents had no knowledge of the full reason for my recovery, they knew that Jim and I were on an uphill climb at that point and shouldn't be thinking of adding insult to injury. I could tell that she wanted to be able to keep quiet about her opinion, but her anxiety for me, for the two of us, radiated through the telephone lines. All of my reassurances that it would force us into making radical changes fast didn't seem to alleviate those concerns. I still got a strong sense of doom from her.

So, moving forward, I was up and down the rollercoaster. Excited on many levels and scared for all of us on others. It was a true test for me of "Letting Go and Letting God".
******************

Update: Shortly after this, I did go to my internists recommendation to quit smoking. It's a place in St. Louis called, Leslie-Cam Smoking Cessation clinic, that used Auricular Therapy -- or an ear zap -- to cure the desire to smoke. www.lc-stopsmoking.com/lesliecam.html I highly recommend it. Zapped me once and cured me forever. I don't think it was more than 75 bucks. I never looked back - not one craving. I've been smoke free now for 4 years, and I can't tell you how proud I am of that accomplishment! To be free - forevermore - of that smelly, expensive habit that only serves to take months off your life and add wrinkles to your face -- hurray! Run, don't walk to an auricular therapy clinic near you if you are still under the deathgrip of nicotine.

In the Pulpit

2010-02-02T16:54:00.001-06:00

Following His lead, ignoring my fear and thoughts of "You don't really have to do this", I plunged forward. Sat beside Dana in the pews until my name was called.

You could have heard my heart beating throughout the sanctuary on that long walk to the pulpit. I'd brought my journal with me, marked with highlights over the important stuff throughout, hoping that I wouldn't go tongue tied and forget what I wanted to say. I know that I referred to it - had to refer to it - but delightedly, the words flowed from me. I made eye contact with the congregation, smiling and almost feeling at ease once I'd begun. You'd have thought I'd been doing this my whole life - well, at least stood in the pulpit for more than just dress rehearsal for choir.

I admitted my insecurity of speaking with them, sticking out my foot from the podium to share my wild socks that gave me the strength that Edna assured me. I'd told them what I shared with all of you about being Edna's liason. And my doubt with Dana. My first impressions of this eccentric little woman. And the mass WOW of our grouping once she began speaking.

I continued:

"Just days before coming to the retreat, I had been given a calling - a major one that I could NEVER imagine myself fulfilling at this time in my life - still can't wrap my hands around it. And her topic on "Timing is Everything" impacted me to the core. The suggestion, she said, that God's timing is impeccable and if we waited for everything to be perfect, nothing would get done. (Eccl 11:4) I'd wanted to say, no...really, I think His timing really STINKS, big time!

(Laughter)

But isn't it amazing - miraculous even, if you allow yourself to believe in those things - that maybe He knows what you need even better than you? That possibly He was waiting for THIS specific time in my life in order to offer it to me? Though I feel ill-equipped for the job, possibly NOW is the time of my life when I'm best able to tackle it because of all my experiences - even the *mistakes* - of my past.

I'd never have gotten here without the spiritual growth that I've gained through my small group. I went into that experience somewhat begrudgingly - and they've grown to be the people I look to for support most in my life right now.

Cuz you know..... I've never been like all of "you". Those who seem to, every Sunday - just GET it. Walk in His ways, speak and pray with eloquence, always doing the right thing. And heck, I didn't WANT to be one of you either. I'm a rebel, a colorful, sometimes *irreverant* thinker! (gasp)

But over the last two years in my small group I've realized, He doesn't want to change the authenticity of you or me! He wants to use you - and me - *just as we are* to be in service to Him.

Five years ago, I'd never have dreamed I'd spend a whole 24 hours in a *religious* woman's retreat - yesterday, I'd never have believed I'd be up here speaking to all of you! I just knew I was missing something - something really important in my life. And if I hadn't allowed myself to be open to Him - then I'd never have been able to see the blessing He's given me in the last two years of my life......even those I'm not willing to see as blessings.

I'd like to propose a challenge to all of you, as Dana did to all of us yesterday. If my sharing here today has spoken to any of you for some reason - that maybe you feel that you're missing something and you are not connected *somewhere* in the small group opportunities offered here at church, then seek it out. Whether it's a personal interest in singing or quilting or scrap booking or the children's ministry or a Bible study, strive for it with a gusto. Move beyond whatever fear holds you back and seek it out.

Life is too short, my friends. And I strongly believe that it's through our Christian fellowship that our spiritual growth takes off - our connections - letting it all hang out with others willing to do the same. Don't wait and hope it comes to you through your passivity, sitting in the pews gathering what you can from the sermons each week. There's so many of His blessings in store for you - we just have to have the openess...the GUTS...the lack of fear in the *moment* to discover it.

And at the very least, ladies of (our church) - sign up for the women's retreat for next year. I think we're having *HER* back!"

I did it. And in writing it here, I honestly can't believe that I said all that. That I was that gutsy, that bold, that brash and open about myself. It makes me wonder if I could do it again.

Of course I could...God does for us what we can't do for ourselves.

After that sermon, we had two people request which small group I belonged to.

Edna Blake

2010-02-02T11:32:00.005-06:00

That following weekend of this very same week, I was scheduled to attend a Women's Retreat through our church. I emphasize the timing specifically because I can see the wise hand of God who reached in with magnificent timing once again, giving me awareness beyond my understanding. And strength beyond my imagination.

I was on the retreat committee that year. By default, I'd become the liason between our church and our speaker, Edna Blake, because my good friend, Dana, who highly recommended her, was going through some family issues of her own. I'd spoken a number of times to Edna on the phone and began to question Dana's judgement. Listening to this woman on the phone, her voice crackling, her confusion over directions or which church group we were, I thought, what the heck, Dana. This woman is OLD! She's confused! How is she going to be the dynamic person our church needs? What *I* need?!

When I met her at the door of the Mercy center, her arrival a relief given her concerns for driving there (despite the fact that she only lived 10 miles away), her appearance did nothing to help me in my general initial impression of her. Imagine, if you will, a small Dr. Ruth type woman. Bespectacled, hair set, voice small, this little woman couldn't possibly be all that Dana said that she'd be.

Yet this tiny dynamo, speaking in her colorful socks and Birkenstocks, had the power to catch all of us that weekend - no matter if we were in our 20's or 60's, making our eyes weep, in unabashed laughter or aching, shocked awareness, opening our eyes to God's message to each of us - that message being something completely individual to all. Her socks, she explained, were her "I-can-do-anything!" socks; a reminder to herself that God is with us all the time, even if we need some colorful reminder of it -- even to the point of wearing those ridiculous pair of loud socks in front of a large group of expectant Lutheran women. Women waiting to hear the magnanimous word of God from a tiny, old, forgetful being such as herself.

Of course, my ears were open to any message I could glean to help me deal with this tiny - unwanted- child growing within me.... the floodgate of messages were thrust open as she spoke.

She talked about our never knowing God's plan for our lives, but that He really does know the right time for everything. We're all being called to a task, she said, that we rarely feel prepared for - but He uses those weaknesses to keep our eyes set upon Him.

Wow....I'm listening, I thought to myself. Jim and I were lucky for 11 years. 11 years of "pull and pray", essentially. Why now? I did NOT feel at all prepared or ready to have another child; not at this time in my life, not now as chaos in my head exploded around me in early recovery. I allowed myself to wonder though, if I let Edna's message sink in, that maybe I was more prepared than I thought I was. More than I'd ever been in my life.

I was more aware of who I was, what I wanted/needed from others, than ever before in my 41 years. I was involved in three 12-step meetings a week, went to a personal therapist, my husband and I involved in counselling together, and my church ladies were behind me all the way. I had more support than I'd ever had in my life!

Maybe this is the one thing that is completely out of my hands; maybe it's the one way in which God can show me that I have no control; that I just have to sit back and trust my Creator, knowing that He'll take care of me and help me through it all. That the understanding, the strength, the patience will be there if I lean on Him. That I needed something as - impossible in my eyes - to fully ask for His help.

The next day, the message kept hammering home.

Ecclesiastes 11:4 Whoever watches the wind will not plant; whoever looks at the clouds will not reap.

In Edna's words: If you wait for perfect conditions, you well never get anything done.

I wanted to be further along in recovery, in counselling. I didn't feel ready for this!!

She stressed that the Holy Spirit is our trainer. We needed to be free of busy-ness so that we could listen. When we can do that, a sense of joy, happiness, peace, kindness and *self-control* will develop. God rested. We needed that too.

God didn't choose the perfect, the well prepared, the confident of the Bible to help Him meet his goals. He chose those that were broken, and in that broken-ness, He knew would look to Him for help.

As in a favorite Peder Eide song of mine, "As Is", God didn't choose the confident, perfect, all-knowing to help achieve His missions. He chose "Moses, a stutterer, David, a murderer, Jerahiah, suicidal, lying naked in the street, Lazereth who was *dead*, Sampson, a long haired womanizer, Noah, a drunk, Abraham who was old, Jacob, a liar, Leah who was "second best"... He chooses us As is. Infuses us as His. No excuses, he uses us as is."

Youtube the song. It's wonderful. But bottom line, I'd never feel ready. And that was the point. I'd put my self in His hands so far in recovery, handed everything over to Him. I'd trusted Him to get me this far. Maybe this was that last thing. The one thing that I said I'd NEVER do.

As I'd started into recovery, looking back over my life, how much He'd been there despite my resistance, the pitfalls He'd saved me from, I just knew in my heart that I was being "saved" for something special. Something BIG, I thought.

Yet, as I listened to Edna, I began to wonder. Humble myself. Maybe *this* was it. Motherhood. Maybe this was supposed to make me slow down and realize what a gift, how important *Motherhood* really was. I'd denigraded it ever since they'd gone off to elementary school. Put myself down for not doing something *really important*. Maybe this was the revisit I needed to help me realize what a gift it really was. And how truly special it was to nurture up another of His little souls. How arrogant of me to think that I had bigger dreams in mind than one so significant as that.

I really needed to hand it over to Him, knowing that I didn't have the outcome, but trust that He did. As all things, if He brought me to it, He'd bring me through it -- and show me as He had so far in this short time of recovery, a wonder that I'd not anticipated. Never dreamed of.

I still wasn't completely trusting in Him that I'd be able to carry a disabled child full term. Because of my age, I'd make sure to have any early diagnostic tests done to make sure the child was healthy. I'd schedule an amniocentesis. And take my will back into my own hands at that point if I needed to....

But right now, I could see all signs pointing to this being right. This child being born out of love - a new developing love of seeing each other truthfully - that Jim and I created. That there was no way I could destroy that. No matter my feelings of inadequacy, or fear of painting the same mistakes, that God would surely see me through if I leaned on Him.

And very possibly, a chance for me to revisit motherhood and fully embrace it, knowning how short it lasts, instead of resenting it and wishing it forward. It really didn't have to be the old picture. It would give a reason for Jim to change around his schedule, to offer me more help. To refigure his life so that he would be more of an active part of our family.

And to give my kids the opportunity to see that they weren't the be-all, end-all. That they needed to think beyond themselves. A healthy dose of reality to care for themselves and others around them.

In those terms -- it was exciting. I still didn't want to be SIXTY with a high school graduate, but ah well. Having a graduate at that age would probably keep me young.

It truly was in His hands.

At the end of the retreat, my friend Dana asked if anyone had something special that we'd like to share with the rest of the church the next morning. She challenged any of us to stand in the pulpit the next morning if we wanted to, if we had something we felt we needed to share.

Well sure, I thought. I had a HUGE message to share.

But call me on the phone. I'd even take you out to breakfast - and pay for it as well.

I had lots to say, an amazing message to tell of God's awesome presence in my life, but hell no. I wouldn't give myself over to public speaking, stand in the PULPIT, for God's sake. Me? Did they have any idea that I was a drug addict? Someone that espoused His name, but dragged her fingernails in the sand, yelling, NOOOO don't take me?! Surely I'd disintegrate to ashes in the pulpit.

(Did I have no memory of the messages I'd JUST heard?!)

I went home, only to be "gifted" for one more night. My family, thinking I'd be gone for TWO nights rather than one, went to the lakehouse leaving me alone for a full other night. Only too happy for another night of solitude, I procured a rental movie and some Oriental food, planning to sit back in delightful oblivion, losing myself in some romantic comedy.

Damn it, if I couldn't stop thinking of Dana's challenge.

I kept the movie running though, telling myself, no.... you can't do that. Don't be stupid. You're not a speaker. And in a pulpit?! Pfffft.....I nearly giggled aloud.

I wasn't even following the movie. I couldn't tell you what the plot was about.

OK, dammit. I hear You. I put aside my food, dug out my journal and started jotting some thoughts down. More and more, it poured out of me. I laughed, I cried in memory.

This was good. I knew I had something to say. Something that needed to be said. To be heard. That it might touch a few people. Inspire them as it did me. That my feelings - of inadequacy and self-doubt - would find a familiar tone in many a heart.

Could I, I dared to ask myself? Could I speak in front of all those people? In a pulpit, no less?? As a singer, I'd rather sing it in a solo!! Public speaking was just NOT my thing! And heavens, it might be long, I thought, as I looked back through the pages I'd written. There's nothing I wanted to leave out though. What if the pastors were disappointed that I was going on and on?

With a quiet sense of inner power, I thought, maybe what I had to say was equally as good as what the pastors did.

Finished and satisfied with what I'd written, I set my journal aside saying to myself, decide in the morning. No one has to know that you had this back and forth argument with God tonight. I can keep quiet about it, and no one would be the wiser.

In the morning, I searched for my wildest pair of socks. They were even *toed* - just in case I needed to feel His presence when I couldn't see that reminder.

"I need some time this morning to share," I told our diaconal minister when I arrived in church that morning. "God's telling me I have to do this thing....so here I am."

Here I am Lord. Lead, and I will follow.

*******
An update on Edna: Our entire church group was so moved by her that weekend, we invited her back a second time the following year. The first time ever we'd engaged the same speaker twice, and in consecutive years! She was the same humble inspiring dynamo. Though my own personal beliefs have grown outwards from hers, I'm still so touched by her inspiration and action in my life. With awed reverance, I give thanks to God for sending her my way - especially at that time in my life when I needed this message so much.

Nightmare Revealed

2010-01-28T12:52:00.002-06:00

It was like pulling teeth sometimes to have Jim follow through with couple's therapy sessions. I knew that he'd said that he found it valuable and had really bonded well with Fleet. Yet, it always appeared to be the last thing on his priority list. It was always being bumped. And I'd become frustrated and hurt - as if making it last on the priority list was also saying that I, and our marriage, was. His day was busy, he'd say. It was hard to cut out at the end of the day, leaving things undone at work.

But tonight was important. I needed him to be there. And, knowing what I had growing inside me, I needed him to make a full commitment. We had a LOT of shit to do.

In session that night, I'd asked him if he understood what I'd been asking of him. What I needed. I wanted him to tell me if he thought I was being selfish. (Yes, he thought he understood., for the most part anyway. No, I wasn't being selfish.)

I was curious to know what he felt the working parent's role in a single income family was besides finanicial stability - if any. He'd become defensive on that one. And began to feel that he was being drilled.

I asked him how valuable he thought couples' counselling was for us personally? Is it worth our spending 100-200 bucks a month? (Underneath this was a feeling of guilt that I'd done this to us. I put us here. I was the one that wanted it. I needed to know that he felt it was worth it too). A good way to the get the "right" answer from Jim, though, was to ask it in front of witnesses - witnesses that were highly invested in counselling as well. I was fairly certain I'd get a positive answer from this one....which I did.

So I moved in for commitment. I needed for him to promise me that he'd be willing and capable to put his family first -- me first -- over his job. If he needed to lighten his patient load, or whatever he needed to do in order for him to be there with me regularly.

He agreed, hell or high water, he would do whatever he could to make it on a regular basis.

I told them it was important to me - especially important to me now. Then entered into a long diatribe:

I told them that I'd been resentful for so long with Jim because I didn't feel that he pulled his weight around the home; he didn't play as a team member. Out of selfishness or necessity - it was hard for me to discern- his work and needs always trumped any issue or need of my own. That his life never skipped a beat since having kids.

But in further reflection, I'd told them, I could see that my resentment was mostly for myself. For never having accomplished anything of importance of my own, nor having any sense of accomplishment or success within the household. Resentment was harbored for wanting kids so much for so long, then realizing what a sacrifice I'd made for them. Trying so hard to find happiness in devoting myself to them and my role as a housekeeper, but always devaluing that role. Feeling lost in such a lack of true purpose that I ended up saying yes to everything, mistakenly believing that it WAS my role, believing it was my only outlet for self-worth. I'd realized how my resentment resulted from being so reactive to Jim - making his life easier. Keeping my own desires silent because it was just easier not to have to argue about it.

I was resentful with realizing just how much I'd taught Jim to treat me so that he could be so disrespectful without having a conscious thought about it. For instance, in the past week, my parents were in town for the National Figure Skating championships and we were rushing to head out the door to one of the competitions. Jim was grumbling about doing his monthly chore of going through the bills. Sitting in front of a sports event on TV, his lap was full of mail and the computer, as he tossed all the trash to the floor beneath him, creating a large mound of discards at his feet. I was rushing, my parents at the back door waiting for me, as I searched in the cabinet behind him for our tickets. He proceeded to ask me if I could please pick up the garbage at his feet on my way out.

It wasn't just a couple things.

I didn't make the mess - nor would I dream of asking him to pick up after me.

But rather than start an argument - especially in front of my parents - I bent over, kneeling at his feet and cleared the floor, then bringing over the garbage can to him.

Being aware of how much I cater to him, in that moment I never felt more his slave.

Fleet asked, would you have been angry with her if she'd just said, No?

Jim said he probably would have. It wasn't a job he enjoyed. Thought that I should have been doing it all along, and besides, it was just "a bit" of garbage. But bottom line, I should have spoken up.

Right. I should have. I was also resentful -- no disgusted, actually -- with my inability to stand up for myself. Especially when it's something so important to me. So Important that by my not doing it would affect my whole life.

Not demanding a vasectomy. Or enforcing my own right to decide to have my tubes tied.

And ending up pregnant. The EPITOME of my disgust with myself for bowing to everyone else -- to JIM's expectations of me.

Tears just streaming down my face, their faces blurring in front of me.

You mean....you, you're pregnant.....NOW?! Not sure if that was from Jim or Fleet.

Nodding my head, just letting it all loose now. Sobbing, shoulders shaking.

Jim sat at the other end of the couch in shock. I don't think he moved for the longest time before he slowly moved over on the couch to embrace me.

We said nothing more for the longest time as I tried to gain control of myself.

Finally able to speak again, I said, I'm absolutely..... DISGUSTED..... with myself for being 41 and putting my head in the sand.

Lots of silence. I think Fleet was quite shocked himself. Unsure how to proceed.

He asked if we knew - had any gut feeling - what we were going to do. What we thought about the pregnancy. If there were religious ramifications. I said that I couldn't possibly imagine having a baby right now. Jim just shook his head.

Later that night, as he held me in bed, my body wracked once again in sobs, he told me he was so sorry. Sorry for causing this. That it was all his fault. And there was no reason for me to feel pressured to go through with this pregnancy.

But you were the one that wanted another child.

Not like this, he said. Not like this. I'm so sorry.

And I knew he was. Even though I was much more angry at myself.

Once again, God's sledgehammer came weighing down on my head, opening my eyes even wider to my own co-dependency.

OK God...I got it. (sob)

Life Happens

2010-01-27T16:59:00.002-06:00

What a difference 24 hours could make.

Just after writing about appearance, fat, and beauty for Sherry one day, the very next I had a huge surprise. Well, for me, more like a nightmare.

I found out I was pregnant.

I'd been excessively tired for days and ignored it given the stress of early recovery. Given our wishy-washy birth control techniques for the last 11 years since Mariah was born, I was always a bit leary of my red ribboned present arriving each month. Anxiety was always overkill, though. It always arrived to greet me within a day or two of the expected time. So when I was tired.....AND late, I thought Okay, quit stressing. Just get a test. Be done with it.

You can't imagine the shock of seeing those two horizontal blue lines.

No. Way.

No FUCKING way.

It made all the rest of the concerns I'd written about in my journals, talked about in therapy, shared around the tables in meetings seem ultra trivial -- or paradoxically ultra meaningful because everything that I'd felt to get me to where I was now was tied up in the finality of this very real and tragic situation. A situation that I, for the life of me, never had wanted - yet allowed to happen. It was the epitome of what I'd done in my life; to ignore or be SO unaware of my needs and the importance of standing up for them while devoted to the process of meeting other's expectations of me. Allowing myself to be just carried by the wind and where fate should take me, letting the chips fall where they may without taking active control over MY life. Allowing others impressions of me or their possible disappointment/hurt to rule my actions.

I stupidly, niavely thought that this couldn't possibly happen. And at 41, I most surely did not want to be here!

WHY?!

I'd enjoyed my kids growing independence and ability to regain some of my life. I was finally able some time during the day to explore the me I'd left behind.

Even though it took Jim and I five years to have Ian, I could see that I had so little sense of who I was was and what I wanted out of life at that time. I was 29. And then, waiting so long to have children, feeling the rollercoaster each month of hope, when Ian finally arrived and Mariah two and half years later, I completely lost myself in them. I sacrificed myself, not knowing how to seperate or ask for more from Jim. I dug my head so deeply into the sand with loving them, I wondered why I felt so unfulfilled. I mean, come on! I loved kids! I felt gifted in my ability to relate to them. Why in the world wasn't I gaining satisfaction in my role as a mother? It was one of the tasks in my life that I really felt accomplished at! I'd heard so many moms say that motherhood was the light of their existence. The most rewarding job they'd ever experienced.

What the hell?! Why didn't I feel that??

I felt that our children had been the stimulus that allowed Jim and I to grow distant with each other. Our focus on them, their struggles, and the exhausting energy to keep up with them left little for us as a couple. Add to that Jim's and my inability to unify in our parenting role made me feel so alone, isolated and often overwhelmed with my job as a mother.

How could I.....WHY would I want to repeat that?!

This was a major example of one more thing that Jim wanted of me when he really had no clear understanding of what that was asking of me.

It was the biggie. Jim was getting his way again. This was a MOMUMENTAL request forced upon me....and another lifetime long.

Too, given my thoughts the previous day about weight and body image, that was surely out the window. I would have to admit defeat. There was no dieting or diet pills allowed now. Nine months of growing out of control then a struggle afterwards to drop the weight. In your 40's. When metabolism is slow as tar. I was currently at the acceptable edge of my tolerance for my body. I really, REALLY didn't want to lose what I'd gained by that point -- though understandably, it was done unhealthily -- I really wanted to remain a size 8. I'd grown enough. There was no guarantee, I thought, unless I chose meth amphetamine again - that I'd get back there again.

Through my drug use and ultimate recovery, I'd been awakened to SO much about mysef and I'd felt a freedom to be able to seek out answers for myself. Seek MY needs/desires. Now I felt as though everything would be put - once again - on a halt. I'd be sacrificing myself again.

Jim and I would have been back to JUST US in just 7-8 years. The freedom to rediscover, be together without the interuption that sadly, by no fault of their own, children caused in a marriage.

The thought that this was God's will was difficult to accept - but I wanted to try to accept that possibility. I knew deep down in my philisophical side that babies were not a choice.

These were damning thoughts.

Am I just being selfish? Whining about the trivial when this is given to show me that there are more important things in life?

Would termination of this child be snubbing my nose to Him and His will for my life?

It put me in a forced position of being truly healthy about my body. I'd have to quit smoking. No coffee. There go the rest of my addictions! I'd not felt ready to do that. I knew I'd been using *them* as a crutch...and another method of appetite control. Even though I knew they *were* an addiction still in my life and that I needed to drop them eventually through God's help and AA/AlAnon, I really didn't feel ready to have it forced upon me now.

Is it really God's will for our life? For Jim and I???

Or was it through our own choice of inaction that allowed it to happen? My own fucking stupidity for not standing up for having my tubes tied! I'd had the date set! DAMMIT!! What the hell?! Not pushing him to have the vasectomy.

FUCK!!

I just didn't feel I had the tools and the power and the awareness to see me through the tragedy to not repeat the same mistakes.

Then.....Did I really need to have all of it now? Or could we develop them together in the next 9 months so that we were more prepared parents of a newborn?

I really didn't think I had the stamina and endurance for this now in my life; the lack of sleep, being a floor-playing mom, playing chase, tolerating the tantrums.

I didn't want to be fucking SIXTY before Jim and I were done and "free"!

Dear God forgive me, but I just DID NOT WANT TO DO THIS!!!

Luckily, Jim and I had a therapy session that night. Sur- priiiiiiiiiiiiiise!!!

And this time, I was fully prepared....and I wasn't going to be naked.

Losing the Weight Battle

2010-01-26T15:37:00.044-06:00

I can't over emphasize how fearful I was during this time of gaining my weight back. I was hovering around 140 lbs - a full 10 lbs heavier than I was at my "meth weight". Though no one, as I said, would have called me over weight before I'd started using, I was no skinny minny (as a friend once told me - as a compliment!) The meth made me the skinny minny I so desired. I could wear the smallest string bikini and feel confident like I'd not done since shedding mega-pounds with breastfeeding. I'd bought a tiny crocheted olive bikini in Florida while I was still using, my daughter commenting, "You look like a Super Mom in that!" I FELT like a Super Mom in that, knowing full well that men took notice of me at the beach/pool. The power I felt in that headiness. Yea, girl....you still got it!

That was quickly going, however. I could see the pounds inch on daily. I'd work out. I took Diet Pills (until Jim told Fleet on me). I ate small portions.

My metabolism wasn't working like a rat on a spinning wheel anymore, though. I was losing the battle.....quick.

I was petrified.

Why, Lauren? What's behind that feeling? You're at a normal weight. You're healthy. Your meth weight made you haggard looking. Your body's probably not built to carry that little of weight anymore. What is behind the need to be ultra-skinny or more, to be attractive? Maybe you need to delve into that a little bit more, Sherry suggested.

Okay. How very superficial this all is, but let's get to the nitty-gritty:

Physical attractiveness has been shown in studies to sway the viewer to think more positive things about the subject than would normally be given if the subject were just plain or fat. When I was younger, I noticed this; I was always thin, but I was rather a "plain" child until approximately 14-15 years old. And at THAT time, I started getting what I wanted socially. I had lots of friends, usually landed the boyfriend I wanted within time. In my adult life - especially since I'd quit work and had little source for self esteem in my stay-at-home position, it was important to me to maintain a good outer physical image, because in my mind, people were automatically more accepting or appreciative and find WORTH in me without my needing to open my mouth! I was someone they'd like to get to know. Surely, I didn't really feel worth getting to know because I wasn't doing anything important or interesting. I've never been accomplished at anything. So that initial acceptance and desire for someone to like me on appearance put me one step ahead of the game. I thought beauty/thinness made me fit the part of "put together" when in judgement by others. Then, when they might get to know me more fully, though I still didn't feel I pulled my weight in accomplishments, intelligence, wit/humor, I knew I had enough of all so that people might say, "Wow...she's not just a pretty face."

I thought that being overweight or "ugly" caused a person to lose that edge up. The foot in the door. The "handicap". And writing that pisses me off, because I do feel I have so many other personal qualities that don't require me to need a "head start" so to speak. Thinking, "of course people will like me - I'm a very likable person!" But I think I enjoy the "easy" part - the automatic - and maybe have depended on that ability to "cheat" fate a bit. That I would be given a little extra favor or chance because I was first noticed and look good. I've since understood that I'm an introvert (though I've tried hard to overcome that and become the more acceptable/likable extravert) so initial social interactions - especially in groups - are intimidating and stress inducing for me. I think beauty gave me a tool that I could use to combat that initial discomfort. I'd be more automatically accepted, or better still, people might come to *me* rather than being unnoticed, feeling like a zero and needing to seek others out.

On more of a male/female level, however, I enjoy feeling that I might be desirable to the opposite sex. I like to feel noticed by men - maybe moreso as an adult because it's more unique and a challenge to remain fit and look good as we age. To hear - wow, she's 40+ and look how good she still looks! What a body! I'm intensely jealous of that when I hear it being said by men. I'm competitive - it's not okay to hear, "Your body is fine; you're not overweight." I want to be the WOW - she looks GREAT. I want to be able to still turn a head despite being 40/50. I want to be the Cougar. It makes me feel powerful, "accomplished", even if just succeeding with battling age.

I mean really, is it "good enough" to just be "good enough"? Or just fine to just BE fine? My weight, my appearance.....no. Not really. It hasn't been.

Maybe in part because I didn't often hear the "Wow! You're gorgeous!" from my husband, knowing that his perfect body type was way leanner than my own. Even so, I'm not sure I'd have believed him anyway. Your husband is supposed to think you're hot.

(Still nice to hear.)

It's even better to have that affirmation from outside your marriage. What a power trip. I could *still* conquer the conquest!

When I'm even a little overweight, I *feel* dumpy, not as smart, more disorganized, not "put together" and unnoticed. Passed over and not as worthy of getting to know.

My old tapes from my family - especially my dad - suggest that you are truly VALUABLE if you're good looking AND smart/funny, etc. People in the dating scene would judge themselves and others accordingly - you wouldn't even *think* of approaching someone with a lot of physical beauty unless you felt equally so or on their level. But once achieving the welcome sign - they were even more special if the person was actually SMART too! But let's face it, guys, our society truly values beauty in women and affluency in men. (Befitting the statement that beauty is valuable.) That's why docs and sports heroes always landed the hotties! Truly, if you saw an affluent man with a dog, or a gorgeous model with a "loser"...we question. Wonder why they don't fit the stereotype. That dog must be good in bed. We don't have an answer for the model with the loser.

Maybe she's enlightened.

I had noticed that I often wore the "costume for impressing". Social armor! Whenever I'd go out, it was important for me to give that good impression - look "good", "put together". By putting on that costume/dress, it made ME feel that way. Put together. Smart. Accomplished.

So, yes, I was petrified of letting myself get overweight - really overweight - because I could anticipate people's disgust and pity. And judgements from others about my willpower, stamina, etc. And become unnoticed. Unworthy. Unaffirmed.

Not valuable anymore to my husband. No longer worthy of being his "trophy wife" (though I'd cringe at the label, it was flattering to think that I might fit the definition). Deep down, maybe I feared that Jim would leave me. I hadn't felt I'd been a "good wife" to Jim in a long time. I'd held resentments, not confided in him, sex was infrequent....if I allowed myself to get overweight too, there'd be more reason to look elsewhere.

So, yes....I was petrified.
******************************
I've just returned from a Women's Spirituality group and I can see, thinking back on this, how much I"m anxiously hanging onto society's expectation of women today. That we all have these unnatural "Barbie doll" bodies. I'm filled with angst trying to achieve that kind of "perfection" that doesn't come easily to 95% of women. We're just not typically built like that - a woman is naturally curvy, voluptuous. I've got that in spades. Rounded hips, full thighs, ripe breasts, a curved belly. We're soft - not these hardened angles that fill our tv and movie screens or magazine covers. This isn't a new idea - for years now, I hear this affirmation to women espoused across Oprah or women's journals. Yet I don't know one person, one woman, who is absolutely satisfied with their shape.

Oh Lord! To strive to *merely* be healthy - to treat our bodies as a sanctuary, a gift from YOU, to live in YOUR image - the Goddess, full of your ripe roundness - and be HAPPY!!

Step One

2010-01-26T14:45:00.000-06:00

I could fully accept that I was powerless over alcohol at that time in my life. When I got truly honest with myself, I could clearly see that I was currently working within the "allowable" constraints of my drinking. I'd always had a glass of wine with dinner - so I was doing that, maybe two, however I was "white-knuckling" that amount. If left to my own devices, I'd surely have a couple more. Further, I was absolutely pissed that anyone would suggest that I have a problem with IT, the one drug I'd used in my life - openly - with NO ONE taking an issue with it or having any concerns. I initially was so pissed to be so "unfortunate" to be willing to seek answers/understanding of my drug use - and then "punished" - that I was targetted to give up something that's never been an issue. I could see SO many other people in my life that had JUST as many issues with alcohol or WORSE and they were still "allowed" to be walking around oblivious! THEY have the problem, NOT me. And just because I was so willing to seek understanding - they're taking my one allowable drug away!

I truly believe that it was only through an act of God that helped me to see how telling my anger and resistance was. As Jim had said, if it's not a problem, give it up. It may be detrimental in recovering from meth. I think my response was shocking to him, realizing ahead of me that the alcohol might be an issue. Or become a serious issue if we continued to ignore that "allowable" amount. I had just substituted the drugs with alcohol at that point. God most certainly did what I couldn't do for myself at the time.

Understanding that has helped me look especially at my smoking - that it's clearly because of addiction issues that I've been unable to quit forever. I'd quit after being pregnant with both children, but started back again after both. I'd had several years after Mariah was born, starting off slowly, using only when I'd go out for a drink with the girls. But it picked up. I was smoking a couple packs a week and hiding it from the kids and most of my social circle. I wanted to use the program to work on *that* addiction when I was through with the first go round of the 12 steps for alcohol.

I talked with Jim one evening at this time about his comment about how STUPID it was to risk taking meth that first time - knowing how much I enjoyed coke in college. I had tried to help him understand my point of view at the time. Given my memory of how much I loved coke in college, I knew I'd never let myself use on a daily basis here in town around the family. I had thought that distance would make the decrease the risk. But given it's potency and our inability to finish what we bought -- AND not wanting to waste, heaven forbid -- I'd broken that promise to myself.

Later, I had a revelation in how that same scenario could be repeated with alcohol in the future. My 3 month challenge was up in February of '06. Jim and I were taking an adult-only trip with friends on a ski trip. This was a time I could see myself being free of the 3 month challenge where I'd be tempted to test the waters, so to speak. I'd be away, Jim most likely wouldn't raise an eyebrow. Would I then spiral into a pattern of breaking my promises to myself, crossing boundaries when I returned home? Would I again start white-knuckling the bottle or worse, start hiding my usage? I'd never done that before with alcohol, but is that because the disease hadn't progressed that far yet? It was scary to think about. I knew I had a lot of work to do before I got to that time.

Homework

2010-01-26T14:03:00.003-06:00

Prompted by Sherry to summarize the reasons I thought that I might have used sustances to medicate, I pulled the following list together:

Low self esteem/low self worth - This was difficult to identify. I thought I'd come leaps and bounds in liking who I was. In fact, I could easily say that I was happy with who I was - the image I put out. However, I would pick and choose which groups I'd share which part with. What if they didn't like me, or were disappointed or disapproved of what they saw? Being a stay-at-home mother, it was hard to gain self-worth from doing the laundry and making dinners. No longer was I a good student, a knowledgable servant to families as a social worker, so esteem/worth fell back on appearance (which was going), being a good housekeeper (I wasn't), a good mom (entirely subjective), good friend (hard to define), good wife (our sex life sucked), and good Christian (I was dragging my feet). So, I was quickly failing with esteem and worth.

Feelings of lonliness - I used to have a hard time staying home alone, needing a devoted friend to share my time. Most moms worked. And I needed someone on a regular basis, not realizing that I was running from my own negative thoughts. If left alone for too long, I began to feel that we really were all alone in the world, that no one can really know what we're going through, that you have to do it all on your own.

Pressure/stress - to live up to other's expectations of me, and especially to live up to the high standards I set for myself (but was unconscious to my doing so).

An inability to ask for help - due to those high expectations on myself or the perceived expectations set upon me. Probably too, because I felt overly responsible for everything around me.

An unwillingness to feel "ugly" emotions like anger/sadness. Anger reminded me of my mom's anger. Sadness was just too painful -- unless it was someone else's. I could feel your pain much easier.

Putting myself last on the priority scale.

Resentment/anger at the people I'd taught to take advantage of me.

Fleet asked that both of us identify what our major issues were in the marriage. My issues centered around unequal responsibilities to the home/family, lack of parenting the children - or undermining my authority with them, and lack of intimacy/compassion/interest shown.

When I was working, it was easier to justify more equal roles in the household. We both worked outside the home, so we both needed to work together to make ends meet at the end of the day. I didn't ask that Jim do housework once 6pm arrived, I truly saw that as my job working during the day. And I was lucky to have help with a housecleaner once a week! I became angry, however, when I felt as if he weren't being a team player, picking up after himself or the kids. Many nights, if I was busy in the evenings outside the house, I'd prepare the dinner (even if I weren't going to be there) and still had to clean up when I came home. Or he'd refuse to stop on the way home to pick up something needed. "I'll come home and watch the kids. You can go get it." Or he'd grumble with being asked to take a turn with taxiing the kids around. "Awwww, I wanted to get a work out in before dinner!" Weekends were encouraged to be spent in fun time so that the scut work was left to me - my job - during the week. He didn't like that he should have to do any work around the house - he'd worked hard for his "off time". I don't know how many times I'd heard from him "I think I'm the only cardio-thoracic surgeon in (our town) that is doing _________!" Though that's a nice pleasant thought, WELCOME to REALITY! No one likes to do chores, but it's a part of life. LIFE is MESSY; you gotta clean up after it and maintain it! And I'm not the only one living in this house! He did the bills and cleaned the pool on a regular basis, complaining about both. It felt very unfair to me. I'd commented, asked, played passive agressive (and left things undone), but it always came back to the same thing.

Discipline with the kids I've shared about quite a bit already. We had different parenting philosophies and he didn't want to make the kids upset in the few hours he had with them. This quite often led to his undermining me by going against what I'd already said. No further explanation needed about my feelings on that!

I took a lot of the blame for the state of our relationship. He claimed to be happy, unaware of any issues. If he had any responsibility, it would have to do with being oblivious to anything other than himself. Many a night I'd spent listening to his woes about work. Of course, I *wanted* to hear his problems - it made me feel a more worthwhile wife! But it was definitely uneven. He didn't ask and I didn't offer. That unwillingness was probably because I felt such guilt over feeling angry/resentful, knowing what a truly wonderful guy he was and was living a lifestyle that anyone else would envy. How could I ask for more? Sure he was self-centered, but he wasn't an ass. He was a loving soul with a good work ethic, who loved nothing more than to spend time with his family. Who was I to complain? My problems seemed so trivial in comparison. I'd end up feeling over-extended, putting ~~him~~ everyone else first. So, I withdrew sexually. Not consciously out of spite. But I was tired. Emotionally, physically. By the end of the day, I really wasn't interested. Besides, I had a great fear of getting pregnant again. Birth control options weren't appealing or had side-effects that I didn't like. Upon making an appointment to have my tubes tied, he begged me not to go. He promised he'd do it; it was easier for the man. He'd have a vasectomy. But he never went. Which I kinda understood his reluctance, letting him off the hook. He wanted more kids. And well......ouch! I didn't feel cared for by him. I mean sure, we both said "I love you" regularly, we took regular dates together, enjoying the same things and each other's company....but in terms of really caring, wondering what I was feeling/thinking, what was going on in my life, there was little attention or apparent interest.

Like I said earlier, he didn't have any complaints. Just asked that I not hide what I was feeling. Be more honest with him. And well.... he was a man.

He wanted more sex.

Continued process

2010-01-24T21:59:00.003-06:00

Over the next several weeks, I settled on my three meetings - the wild child group on Friday night, the supportive moms on Monday morning, and out of frustration for other women's daytime AA groups, settled on a "Double Winners" Wednesday meeting that happened to be co-ed. This meeting, incidentally, continues to be my primary meeting I still attend. And though co-ed, Fleet would be happy to know that I've *never* been hit on in the almost 4 years I've attended! I also settled on a sponsor from the wild child group, who I was touched by in her making time to meet with me to hear my story. I know that's part of the deal in AA and being a sponsor, but there is something very touching when you're new to have someone - a volunteer, a stranger - agree to put aside time (she was a single mom of a young girl) to meet with someone that they have no guarantee will even work the program. End up being a waste of their time.

I was still shocked to hear her response to me when we first met when asked about the consequences I'd had so far in my drug/alcohol usage.

None, I said.

Nothing legal? No threats of divorce? No DUI's? Why the hell'd you quit, then?

Shrug. God?

Shit, she says, I'd still be out there. You have a real high bottom.

That's maybe a scary thought. Because, of course, a person would wonder if they really do have a problem. I know it's been my question about alcohol since day 1. I had talked to this Addiction Doctor guy on the phone, this Dr. McCauley. And he agreed that within 4-6 months, once my dopamine levels were normalized that I very well could go back to having a normal relationship with alcohol. But one would never know unless they went back out there -- and hopefully came back in when they realized it wasn't working. A potential sponsor from the Monday supportive mom meeting asked me, if drinking isn't an issue (you can take it or leave it) and you know it might be a risk....why risk it? Good question. I think I needed to verify it really being a problem since it hadn't been in the past.

Anyway, my wild child sponsor, she didn't think I was a waste of time. She met with me, listened to me, offered her phone number, and gave me assignments to work through the beginning steps. Of course the hardest to me was admitting I was powerless over alcohol and that my life had become unmanagable.

I was almost offended by the word - alcoholism. I felt as if everyone in the place was just waiting for you to claim yourself an alcoholic. I mean, why would you come in the first place? As if they were bitter that there might be "normies" out there that could drink with control. But for the time being, I could admit that alcohol was an issue right NOW and that alcoholism was in our family through my grandfather. But unmanagable? What the hell? That word pissed me off too. Heck, I was known as the rock in the family. I was the one that held everything together. I KEPT things from being chaotic!

I've since realized chaos/unmanagability doesn't have to exist externally for there to be a major dump of chaos going on inside our heads. My brain, my co-dependent thinking, was in considerable bedlam. Sure I was intelligent enough to piece together the healthy things to think, yet up til this point, and certainly when not putting effort into it, my brain went amok. I was a veritable unmanaged emotional wreck.

But I was learning too. We were coming up on Thanksgiving of '05 and headed to Ohio to visit Jim's family. He had wanted to skip therapy to get on the road earlier. I knew, however, how extremely important it was to go -- if only for the symbolic coaches' pep talk before the big game of meeting up with family. Who else better to push buttons and put us right back into our own internal hell but Family.....and oh. my. heavens. The in-laws! I needed a bit of support to grasp hold of. AND I needed for my husband to see therapy as important. But more than anything else, I needed to stand my ground. We'd already missed an appointment together the week before, so we really hadn't spent much time at all delving into our issues as a couple. Looking back, I also needed to acknowledge that Jim wasn't a tough customer about many of the requests I feared asking of him. I just needed to stand my ground and ask. And usually, he did come around.

We were able to talk about the need for me to be an observer more than a participant, identify my feelings and thoughts around his family members. Take note. Be an outsider, a bystander. Journal and have a plan for coping or getting away if I needed to. I also planned a "special drink" that I could have in a wine glass so that I didn't feel that I was being deprived. (I loved soda water with a lime.) And I also confided in two of Jim's three sisters so that I didn't feel the questions behind my back about why I wasn't drinking wine with dinner. I remember them being so supportive (Oh God bless your little heart!) Fleet also gave me a smooth, handheld stone to remind me of the rock of strength I had through my Higher Power.

My observations? Not drinking wasn't ever an issue - for me, or for others. There was no talk that I was aware of that I wasn't drinking, nor did I feel the need to imbibe. Yet, I did find that I felt self-conscious and defensive. Anxious with how my kids acted, running around the house without care, fighting with one another with nary a comment from their dad. Or in observation of whether or not we'd demand that the kids attend church, Jim would rather not go than cause the kids to fight about it. Also, there seemed to be a tendency for Jim to act like a hard-ass to me around his family, almost as if to show that he wasn't "whipped" which in turn would cause me to show how little crap I'd tolerate from him. It was an antagonistic relationship that we didn't have at home. I could also notice an irritation with his family for allowing Jim to be disrespectful - like coming to the dinner table when called - as if he was the special child. The Doctor! And though I could acknowledge that I made myself feel that way, I noticed that I felt very much outside the family. It was my own responsibility to include myself - no special concern was made by Jim or his sisters to make me feel welcome....even though I'd been part of the family for 18 years.

Most of all, I was able to sit back and acknowledge a great amount of anger burning inside. When all else was quiet like this, and I just sat back and listened - and watched - I was increasingly surprised by my anger, despite making such tremendous strides recently and feeling so many blessings. I was so PISSED with my household role! I felt that anger and resentment first started when having kids - and I was hugely shocked by that. I loved kids and tried for years to have my own; would have been devastated if we couldn't. So being pregnant after years of trying, I was so blissful! Imagine my shock and surprise when I had this baby that often seemed inconsolable, who I was also up every two hours for breastfeeding all night! I never imagined how all consuming, how self-sacrificing children would be - especially when you wanted/still want/love them so much. Jim was of little help 1) because he was a resident and 2) because he didn't have nipples! His life hardly skipped a beat - and still hadn't to that point - he was able to run, go out on an errand at the drop of a hat without another thought. He could say, "I'm going _____ or doing ______" no matter what was happening at home. I could never do that - even when he was home. I needed to make sure the bases were covered, the schedule was reviewed, people were going to be fed,etc. I was always the one to handle the chaos/the tears. As they grew, I needed to handle their tears and fighting but only in the way HE was okay with - because my mother was always held up as a threat to me. I couldn't spank or seem overly too harsh. Yet he wouldn't take part himself. There at Thanksgiving, for example, he'd been able to hide away at his sister's computer or behind the paper, the kids arguing/running in circles around the house - and he was oblivious. Took no action at all. The fact that my entire life had changed and his had hardly skipped a beat was tremendously frustrating, especially when I was nagged to do it all over again with another child. By not just him, but his mother too. It'd be so easy for him - he could just easily enjoy their child wonder as it worked for him, but whenever he needed/wanted something else - he'd just get up and do it. When they were younger, and the stress and strain became too much that I voiced something (which really had to reach some horrendous level for me to say boo), he'd encourage me to go out/leave. And on the few occasions that I did that, I really wanted him to handle it all. I wanted desperately for him to juggle everything - the house, the chaos of the kids, so that he'd GET it! Even though, I knew he'd do it in his own way, probably multi-tasking way less so that, of course, he'd never be able to feel what I felt on a daily basis. However, he never would do it on his own. He'd have his sister or his mom come and help him out over the weekend.

All this was brewing over Thanksgiving that year, though I can look back and truly say that it was a decent holiday weekend despite my new recovery status. Amazing what you can neutralize within yourself given years of practice.

Little did I know what forshadowing it held for months to come...

Feelings

2010-01-23T15:20:00.003-06:00

Those first few weeks finding and attending new AA meetings were filled with an array of feelings. Writing became my coping skill in dealing with the rush of emotion I'd encounter. I had a very hard time sleeping, so I'd be up first thing, jotting away.

I remember feeling frustration and anger with the meeting schedules. Both Sherry and Fleet told me to focus on AA groups - not NA - because they weren't sure of the "quality" of NA. True or not, I don't have any idea. At that point in my recovery, and probably still, I just did what I was told! However, after a bit of google research, I became ticked after reading that the largest statistical group of people starting use of meth right now were middle to upper class housewives! I agreed to attend 3 WOMEN'S meetings a week (Fleet was afraid I'd be hit on.) Just how many meetings, do you think, were held *during the day* when housewives were most available? Less than 1%!! Not many choices for women unless you could go to meetings right at the busiest time of day - dinner! I knew they are catering to the multitude - most women today had joined the workforce - but do your research, guys! Those frustrated, bored domestic slaves were having trouble - lots of it! We needed to cater a bit to them, too!

I was also quite frustrated with the inability not to have cross talk. To have a back and forth discussion of support. At AA meetings, people laid their problem out there given their time to speak (if you were able to jump in), the feelings sometimes hanging raw in the void over the middle of the table.....and then the next person had a chance to say their two cents without regard for the prior speaker. It felt foreign and lacking in compassion to me.

I've since realized that it teaches us (many things), but one being the ability to listen. So often in conversation, we blurt out our first thoughts, interupting the person talking - possibly taking that speaker off course. Normal conversation often keeps the listener focused on what he's going to respond, rather than just listening without any stress to offer anything in return. Rather than allowing a multitude of irrevelant, though well-meant, solutions by the various attendees, limiting cross-talk causes the solution to arise from our Higher Power - who I now firmly trust as the God Within all of us.

But at that time...I have to admit, it was hard to get used to. Revealing...that.

I had found one female group close by that was attended by a handful of older women having decades of recovery behind them. I remember gravitating towards the younger women, however, I can easily look back now and see the older as these wise mom-like souls. Mothers that I needed in my life at that time. Loving, forgiving (we've all been there) but tough. There was talk about co-dependency issues, which of course were well known to me at the time. They strongly discouraged attending AlAnon, though, saying that I didn't need to mix meetings and confuse the issue. I remember feeling an ominous foreshadowing upon meeting one younger woman attending who was there after several relapses. She was an alcoholic with a cocaine addiction as well who was now in fear of the impending loss of her family and children. I mentioned after the meeting (no cross talk!) that I'd not had any negative consequences (from family, work, the legal system) with alcohol or drug use. Her response, "There's still time! I've been where you are." That shook me up. She also warned me of what I'd heard before. Every relapse she'd had, no matter how much time inbetween, it took her back to the stage in addiction as though she'd never quit. I knew that I was holding on to the hope that my sober lifestyle would not have to be forever. But there was definitely fear in that statement of hope. And I knew that Jim was in full support of my AA actions now, but did not feel that sobriety forever would be necessary for me. There was comfort in that, knowing that he wouldn't be judgemental were I to decide to drink again 4-6-12 months down the line. But there was also a justified fear planted within that I might step right back into abusing alcohol, which could lead to hiding, isolation and drug use.

There were also intense feelings of self-love and gratitude during that time. I remember thinking to myself that I'd never had any idea how to "take care of myself" before. People, in hearing that you were struggling over something, might mention, "Pamper yourself. Do something good for you today." What the HELL did that mean? Go shopping?! That never did an ounce of good for me. Get a massage? A bandaid! Take a bath? Read a book? What???! What did one do to take care of oneself??!! Never before in my life was I spending so much time thinking only of ME. Here I was going to three meetings a week, meeting with my counselor on another of those days, our couples counselor on another, spending hours journaling, reading, without much concern for housework, errands, making dinners. I felt so self-serving. Almost narcissist? The kids were loved and cared for, but I was consumed with everything recovery. Never before since I'd first given birth to my kids was I so immersed in what I was doing. Every thought, from the moment I woke til the moment my eyes drifted off in sleep, were filled with recovery....and I'd never felt so self-loved. That *this* was what taking care of me meant. Putting aside everything else in the world for what I most needed to do. Fleet and Sherry had debated on putting me into inpatient treatment, as that was what was recommended from the evaluation, but they were reluctant with the local choices. Neither of them had very high opinions of them. Given our financial status, going to more successful programs like Hazelton or Sober Living By the Sea, was a possibility -- but I imagine they were grasping onto the hope that I was an eager newbie. And that I was. Each morning my only thought was, "What do I most need to do for ME on this day? What is the next best step?"

Indeed, that should still be *all* of our questions each day. Lord, point me in the direction I need to go today. What is best for ME today. Let me hear your voice. Then help me to DO it.

I'll end this note today on an epiphany that I had at that time that still brings tears to my eyes. I love listening to Selah (or even Josh Groban, but he glosses over the God-part) sing the song, "You Raise Me Up". The Lord's unconditional love always brings me to tears. Not only because it's an acknowledgement of His constant presence in my life despite my resistance and fear of completely "letting His will be done" - but also because I feel in His view that I am a very special person despite all my weaknesses, big and small. "I am strong when I am on your shoulders". On your shoulders - not at His side....not walking hand in hand...not even allowing me to walk as the lead - but on His SHOULDERS is reminiscent of that child being lifted high on his parent's shoulders, feeling on top of the world, able to conquer all, fly free, feeling so special and loved by the support beneath him, and knowing in return, as a parent myself, that He felt so fully proud of me- no matter my weaknesses and mistakes.

That song enabled me to put myself within it, flying high over God's shoulders, seeing myself more clearly through His eyes, so that I was able to write to my counselors:

"I am beginning to forgive myself for being flawed - for not being all that I had tried to be but knew that I was forever falling short of. So I'm not as intelligent as my husband, not as thin and beautiful as those gorgeous people in the media (and around me), not as organized and successful as those type A people in my life that I admire so much, not as verbally eloquent as I'd like to be, much more forgetful than many, and more like Mom's unpleasant side than I'd like to admit! However, I've disregarded and minimalized so many of the truly wonderful and special things that I am - how much of a gift THAT is - in and of itself - without my DOing a thing for another that makes me worthy and special. Even going so far to say that even the qualities that I say I don't have....I have more than I give myself credit for. I've realized that much of my use was seated in a feeling that I'm somehow lacking, that I don't quite measure up, that I might disappoint someone. It's through that acknowledgement and acceptance of being flawed, as well as the praising of all that I really AM that's not only been a worthy gift to myself, but worth mounds to others that I can share that with."

AA

2010-01-21T10:11:00.002-06:00

I dragged along one of my friends to my first AA meeting. By this time, I'd begun to share with a few of my closest of friends. The non-judgemental ones. Added in the rest of my small group members Responses were surprisingly supportive. In fact, my honesty seemed to create a certain respect and understanding with those I told. Though none of them had resorted to illegal drug use, my frustrations as a stay-at-home mom were well known to them. Coping skills come in a multitude of forms - many of us not embracing the healthiest of them.

My good friend was not in need of giving up alcohol - she was a closet smoker. And like my street drug usage, she felt the same shame. She'd been secretly attending a 12 step progam - Smoker's Anonymous - but had not yet been able to gain the strength to put the sticks down. She said she'd be more than honored to attend my first meeting with me.

I still remember walking into that goverment building basement where the meeting was held. Friday night girls meeting. I didn't know what to expect. Were they all a bunch of losers? A bunch of liars and criminals and washed out drunks? Would I find any commonality there?

To this day, I call them my party gals. My wild child(s). They were of varying ages, but mostly younger. Little rebels. Crazy, rockin' hair and clothes. Some of them open lesbians. They spoke honestly. They said FUCK. They were living life as I'd hoped to live one day- boldly. Without excuses. Caring, open and loving....but a daringness to be who they were. They even had a group that went down to the local bar and grill after the meeting - to drink soda and order up appetizers! I was stunned people could be that "on the edge" and have fun - but without a drink or drug!

I'm not sure I'd seen that on my first night there....but that is my memory of them. How awesome for that to have been my first introduction to AA.

It was November, so the meeting centered around the 11th step - prayer and meditation. I raised my hand to introduce myself and share. Listening to others do the same, I wasn't sure how I'd introduce myself to them. I wasn't an alcoholic. What was I? Why was I here?

"Hi, I'm Lauren. I'm an meth amphetamine addict and am choosing not to drink right now." Guess that covers it.

I told them a short version of what I felt in my heart. I could see God's work and presence in my life. Even when I was resisting Him - He's always been there. when I'd been most resistant in my past, it's been the people that He's placed in my life that have helped me open my eyes.(as I squeezed my friend's hand). Even to the extent of Mary (my supplier); of course He didn't will my meth use, but I know that befriending her specifically helped me to see. The spiraling down of my usage, the dynamics of our friendship through her neediness, and my feelings of commonality with her, were the BILLBOARD I needed to help me see/understand. I was sure then that there had been numerous times that He'd knocked on my door, perhaps even LEANED on the doorbell! With my own busy-ness going on in my head, however, and the denial of all my negative feelings, I was able to block out the incessant nuisance at the front door.

I'd been able to recount a number of miracles that I was sure had occured over the past month:

just 4 days after turning up empty handed, the topic in our small group being temptation. Reading words about secrets harming you and needing to open up to someone you can be accountable to.
The group being held at our house - comfort in a very uncomfortable situation
Jeanette's monopolization of the meeting with my very own story. Needing that monopolization to identify it in myself.
Dana's seemingly intuitive action of lining up the chain on the cross
My brother's family visiting for the first time in over 4 years THAT very WEEK - and this timing allowing me to be able to see the commonality between us. How we cater to our spouses and deny feelings of unhappiness.
The doc just happening to have Sherry's card when we were discussing his fears of my relapsing.
Sherry just happening to be exactly the person I'd been looking for. That strange immediate connection and genuine mutual fondness. The immediate feeling of support and forgiveness even though she was harping on the same theme of giving up alcohol.
Fleet just happening to be flexible enough with his schedule that he could allow my busy husband a later appointment. And that even though he was a recovering alcohol/drug addict, (a failed soul in Jim's eyes) was someone who was intelligent enough - yet frank and warm enough - to capture not only Jim's "doctor" side, but my own needs as well.
In the short amount of time that I'd met Sherry and took the evaluation - going from an attitude of NO FUCKING WAY would I give up alcohol when it wasn't the problem to acknowledging that it was a problem NOW and being able to actually visualize what my life would look like without it in the future.
That, by opening up to a dear friend, she could surprisingly open up about her own issues with addiction and attend my very first AA meeting with me, giving me support in a scary "first" situation, while giving continued support back to her with her own issues.
That that first meeting was full of these bold rebels, speaking with garingly harsh reality. Exactly what I admired in a person. And people from all walks of life. One of them was a female doctor.
In the meditation book that I'd picked up from Central Services just the other day, there was a page folded down when I'd brought it home. "An element of recovery", it said, "is learning that we deserve success, the good things that come to us, and also that pain is a reality. We have the strength to deal with that pain without medicating, and it will pass." What I most needed to hear in starting out this journey: I was worthy of uncompromising happiness and that all pain was temporary.
On the day that I first recognized my anger with Jim, at the time for making me feel like I HAD to give up alcohol, the meditation book read, "Because society would rather we always wore a pretty face, women have been trained to cut off anger." Yes! Affirmation!
In my first full day of complete sobriety, both clean AND sober - feeling the acceptance and sadness of it all, the reading on that day read, "Life has got to be LIVED - that's all there is to it. In recovery, I would say the advantage is that you take time more calmly. You know that, this too shall pass." Affirmation that I had a full life to live - with all of its joy and sorrows. That the pain I'd go through to get there would be over soon.
That despite Jim's worst fears of betrayal from his most beloved, he'd overcome his disgust in having a street drug abuser as his wife, his feelings that I was the problem, and performed a complete 180 to be supportive and go into treatment with me.

There was no doubt in my mind that all of this was divine. How could it not be? All this in such a short time? All those variables coming together at one time. Like I said, He may knock many a time in our lives - surely He had in mine. But I needed all of this TOGETHER - like the sledgehammer to the side of my head - in order for me to answer the door.

Perhaps its also a miracle I did.

Some never do.

Meth - The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

2010-01-21T08:33:00.008-06:00

One of the things Sherry first wanted me to look at was what I got from meth amphetamine. What did it serve me....and what was it's lie?

On both occasions of first using cocaine, back in my college days, then meth on the Girl's trip, there was an immediate feeling of everyting being right with the world, an extreme feeling of love for everything in it. Both times, I have a distinct memory of those firsts, looking at the trees and the sky, and seeing with such clarity and wonder over God's creation. The beauty that it held.

I'd label myself as "high" on the drug, but I'd never felt that way, at least not in the way that a high might suggest to someone; being spaced out, loopy, and unfocused. Just the opposite: in the beginning there was a very strong sense of calm clarity with a ton of extra energy. At the beginning, I felt I was so much better when using, because I could think so much clearer, remember a multitude of details, and have the energy to carry out more than my share of tasks.

On a number of occasions, however, there were episodes of a "bad" high. A bad dose, I'd wonder? (A foreshadowing.) Jittery hands, a knot in my stomach, sometimes feeling the blood rushing behind my ears with a strong undercurrent of panic and worry. Who knows about me? Am I dying? What am I forgetting to do? On those occasions, I'd lie on the couch with my eyes closed, willing those feelings to pass. On those occasions, I'd drink.

It killed my appetite and taste buds. I mean killed it. I had no desire to eat anything -nothing looked good. And that was confirmed when I forced myself to eat-everything tasted like cardboard. It was hard to swallow. I was intelligent an person though. I knew that I had to eat in order to maintain my secrecy. I couldn't get sick! So, the drug helped me to make wise choices, ironically speaking, I had better eat the good stuff that might provide me with the most vitamins so that I look as healthy as possible. I'd seen those pictures of meth addicts online. Their gaunt bodies,hair falling out,losing their teeth. I wouldn't be one of them. So I ate my vegetables,got a rounded meal(on the smallest plate possible).

I marveled once again that I felt SO normal on this drug, with such increased energy and clarity, that the only negative was it being illegal, making it impossible to live openly while using it. Shouldering that guilt and shame was overpowering....but the benefits it provided at the time overshadowed guilt by a longhaul.

Towards the end of my usage, the drug began to reveal it's lie to me. I was completely hooked at this point, so meth could reveal itself a bit more clearly to me. Almost like heading to bed with the guy of your dreams, only to wake in the morning, turn your head for a kiss and recognize you'd bedded this horrible monster.

My blood pressure was really racing. I could feel it pounding behind my ears. I was fearful of working out anymore. For the past 8 years, I was a regular at our local gym in aerobic classes and weight training. No longer. I was sure I'd stroke out. Though meth was supposed to make a person sexually stimulated, I kept my distance from Jim. I was worried our sexual escapades might make me have a heart attack. Too, I didn't want him to hold me and feel my racing heart. Look lovingly into my eyes and recognize a rim of residual white powder ringing my nostrils.

My fingers were so often in the crevice behind my earlobe feeling for my pulse, I began to fear that the part of my skull that framed this area was filling in. There was bone structure there that I'd not recognized before.

I felt my heart skipping beats. At one time I was completely convinced there was something wrong with my heart so that I'd be dead within the year. I'd lie in bed and think of my children: Ian finally starting to have an interest in girls, Mariah's adoration of her 4th grade teacher. I lay there and accepted that I was probably not going to see them grown up. Life wasn't so wonderful.

But I kept using.

I realized towards the end that it wasn't curbing my apetite as it had. And now, I'd resorted to sugar. Forget vitamin fulfillment. I could at least count on sugar to always have a great taste.

I'd become convinced there was a hole straight through the back of my nostril to my brain. That it was frying right though the grey matter.

And I knew that it was my usage that was making my mind so foggy, it's machinery feeling as if it were covered in some sticky glue. I couldn't remember SHIT! My brain seemed to react SO slowly to put together information from various sources. I was embarrassed to talk to friends and extended family members in any kind of intellectual conversation because I couldn't put two rational thoughts together. And I was extremely paranoid of their humor thinking that I was being laughed at - my stupidity. I became highly defensive.

Fear of dying, of stroking out, of someone finding out - checking my nostrils a gazillion times a day, of being forgetful and stupid, of my brain disintegrating. Pure isolation from all but my supplier and resulting lonliness. This was the ugly truth I lived with after meth took off it's beauty mask. This was the monster I awakened to after falling head over heels with its beauty.

But damn....that was a great drug.

Agreement

2010-01-19T11:12:00.005-06:00

Within the following week, I decided to give up alcohol.

Equally as much of a shock, my husband agreed to go into counseling.

It was partially that first visit with our counselor that pushed me the final mile of making the decision to give it up. I'd found this counselor, Fleet; male, a family counselor in the 12 step network, through Sherry, the drug/alcohol counselor that gave me the evaluation. I'd since dropped the doc, as well, given my focus now on substance abuse (what I'd told him) and my strong emotional connection to Sherry (what I felt in my heart).

Fleet shared with the two of us the outcome of that evaluation. Moderate to Severe. Recommended inpatient treatment. I told him how frustrated I was with the parameters of the test - that most of the answers would be a "no" if I answered specifically about drinking. My husband, sitting at the far end of the couch from me, supported me somewhat in saying that as long as he'd known me I'd had a glass of wine with dinner - and that was it. But as well, he was shocked in my attitude. I felt as though he looked at me like a child through a parent's disapproving eyes. "If it's not an issue to you, why not just give it up and show them it's really not. What's the big deal?"

We'd listened to a great CD by Dr. Kevin McCauley (www.addictiondoctor.com) who is one of the leading doctors in the nation that is scientifically affirming the debate that addiction is a disease. Dr. McCauley's lecture, "The Disease Model of Addiction" stated that scientific studies showed that upon using a drug, recordable change occurred in the midbrain, the subconscious (without *conscience*) part of the brain. With abuse, your ability to experience pleasure or joy was greatly decreased, causing the addict to use more often and frequently, without regard to their moral principles. Following that framework, my husband argued, it would make sense that giving up the substance for a period of time could return that "pleasure center" to a normal state for the person that was not an alcoholic. Jim argued that were I to give up alcohol for a period of time, that it was quite likely that I could drink again in the future if I, in fact, were not an alcoholic.

Fleet agreed it was possible. He wasn't a doctor. I think he was just anxious to have me quit.

I felt like a child. Small. The bad person. I'd put myself in the hands of the professionals, open, honest and willing. And they sat there, Fleet and my husband, with expectation in their eyes asking me to give up my last crutch. I was still feeling highly emotional, uncovering more about myself on a daily basis, and they looked at me....expectant....disapproving of anything but *their* solution, waiting for me to make the obvious decision.

So there it was.... a challenge of sorts held out to me. If it's not a problem, give it up.

In that instant, I understood. I was incredibly scared about that option because I could acknowledge in that moment that it was a problem. I could see how much I was white knuckling that alcohol bottle, depending on it, using it strongly because of all the emotional upheaval I was feeling. Aha moment right there in Fleet's office, sitting on his couch with those expectant eyes waiting on me.

*Progressive doesn't mean you progress to the point of being the stereotypical drunk, homeless person under the bridge with a filled, wrinkled paper bag. It means that your dependency on some kind of chemical becomes stronger so that if it's not available, you'll just switch chemicals to have some kind of relief or satisfaction.

I got it.

And I hated it. It was almost if, I thought, that in that decision in April of '04 on that girl's weekend to use meth, I'd forever give up alcohol. I wish I could have foreseen the future. I wish, I wish...

But it was obvious to me that I needed to stop drinking. Stop using any substances that helped my brain continue a connection of substance = relief.

And I wanted to learn as much as I could about alcoholism and substance abuse so that I could wield myself with knowledge - not only for myself but for my kids as well. Quickly leaving the tween stage, my soon-to-be teens needed me to be beefed up with any knowledge I could get my hands on about alcoholism. Make them aware of the dangers ahead for themselves if this were genetic in our family. Besides my grandfather, I was still not willing (and still hold out judgement) to label anyone else in the family- including myself - an alcoholic. But knowledge was power.

I'm willing. I will, I'd answered those expectant eyes.

What are you willing to do, Fleet asked.

Stop drinking for at least a period of three months. Attend 3 meetings a week, continue couple's counseling with you once a week, and individual therapy with Sherry.

Deal.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Here we go.

Substance Abuse

2010-01-15T12:37:00.004-06:00

During that week of isolation, I was still seeing my therapist. He identified one concern: if Jim would ever agree to come to counseling, he couldn't continue to see me individually. Ethically, he couldn't focus on the union of the marriage, and still support me as an individual on the side. And if those couple's sessions were to increase my stress level, he was concerned even more about my drinking. He gave me the name of a drug/alcohol counselor and asked that I would at least have an evaluation done to make sure he'd covered all his bases. That I wasn't the ticking time bomb he suspected.

Just as when he'd suggested it the first time, I was more than willing to go. Let's get to the bottom of everything and move forward. In for a penny in for a pound.

I'm sure you've met a handful of people in your life that you know, within the second of meeting them, that there is a special connection between the two of you. They might not even have had to open their mouth, but perhaps it's their eye gaze or some chemical liason between the two of you, but you just know. There's something mysteriously....connected....between the two of you.

That's exactly the way I felt when I met my alcohol/drug counselor. Or maybe I was just so in tune with God's will, that I could feel that this was exactly where I needed to be. And I was directed to her, specifically, because God knew we'd connect on a spiritual, emotional level. My doc hadn't even known her very well when he'd sent me to her. They happened to be at the same meeting the week before and they'd networked together. She gave him her card, and it happened to be sitting on the top of his desk as we were talking about about a substance abuse evaluation.

I opened up easily, talking with her. Sharing my substance abuse history. Alcohol always in the home; my parents were the typical "cocktail drinkers" that was widely popular in the 50's. Our family was traditional and boring, though. No drunken stupors. No chaos. No abuse. I had a grandfather - my dad's dad- that was your stereotypical drunk. I didn't know him well; he died when I was young. From what I understand, however, he'd disappear often, couldn't hold a job, and was somewhat (verbally?) abusive. None of his kids showed any signs of alcoholism.

I started drinking in high school to be part of the crowd. There was often a party happening every weekend. Smoking cigarettes was a habit I'd also picked up during that time. I felt the drinking/smoking combo made me appear more "cool" - more one of the crowd. I'd also experimented with marijuana in my last few years of high school as well, but never enjoyed that feeling. I was always too mellow and hyper-self conscious. That was my type of personality anyway, I didn't need anything to magnify it.

In college, I was a "party-girl", starting the weekends on Thursdays. Loved the bars, dancing, and staying out late. I felt more comfortable with a drink and a smoke in my hand. Hangovers were common, black outs less so. I never missed work, however, and remained a good student. By my senior year, I'd discovered cocaine. Largely a weekend escapade, it made me feel like the life of the party. I was confident, beautiful and loving life. I think it's possible that could have gotten out of hand, but I was a student with little cash. An attractive young lady, I could also get it free a lot, but thankfully all of this happened at the end of my college years, just before I'd met my husband.

My husband and I shared a short drug/alcohol life. I was shocked the first time I'd seen him dip his head to snort coke with me - he looked like such a straight arrow kinda guy. We might have shared that experience 4-5 times. But we met literally the last two weeks before I left UK to do my social work internship before graduation. It was time to grow up and start acting like adults. By the time we were married, the "party life" was a thing of the past. He was an officer in the military and in residency; I had a 9 to 5 job. That party time became one more memory of just another college kid's carefree lifestyle before the responsibilities of adulthood took over.

She then issued the substance abuse questionaire. I was to answer the questions without regard to the substance. If it was a "yes" to one substance, then the answer to the question was a "yes" to all. It began to frustrate the heck out of me, because many of my questions that I responded "yes" were purely because of the meth, not alcohol.

Have you ever hidden your usage? - Alcohol, no. Meth, hell yes, it was illegal.

Have you felt that it takes you more to get a feeling of high. Alcohol, never enjoyed getting drunk, so it wasn't the goal when drinking. Meth, yes.

Do you ever feel you need it to get going in the morning. Alcohol, no. Meth, yes.

Do you feel guilty about your usage? Alcohol, no. Meth, yes.

I've often felt that I needed to cut back on my usage. Alcohol, no. Meth, yes.

Have you ever not followed through with what you were supposed to because of your usage? Alcohol, no. Meth, yes.

The conclusion? I had a moderate-severe level of alcoholism and immediate treatment was strongly recommended.

I was pissed.

Here I was, being open....honest, sharing my alcohol history and current use with her, and for that, for THAT, they were going to send me away, lock me up, and make me give up alcohol?! I was no more a drinker than the majority of the population. Happy hours. Can't wait for the weekend. Hearing about someone's bad day - the suggestion, "You need a drink!" Cheers, a celebration. Shoot....everyone drank! Me no more than any of them. Sheesh, it was the one *accepted* chemical in my life! My husband, my family of origin, my friends.....not one single one of them had ever suggested to me that my drinking was a problem. SURE, I'd used it to address pain, but who in this world had NOT? Why am *I* being singled out?!

I was pissed.

I had heard that it was a major concern to me because if it was true that chemical dependency was a progressive disease, which they'd said it was, holding onto any chemical allows the disease to progress.

But *any* addictive behavior was going to do that if I didn't address the issues that cause the behavior to be a problem. I mean, a person could be addicted to anything - the internet, food, sex, shopping - we wouldn't be asking those people to give up those behaviors completely. They'd have to learn how to control their addictive satisfaction by addressing the issues that caused them to abuse it.

But you don't need alcohol to live your life.

But substance was substance, right? Internet, food, sex, shopping. Any of those things would cause the disease to progress if you didn't address the problem, right?

Besides,I don't have a problem with alcohol! It's never been a problem in my life!

There was no way I was going to be stripped of everything, I said.

Yet, a growing concern was forming in the back of my mind. I didn't want to voice it because I didn't want anyone to think I was going to go along with this stupid idea.

If alcoholism is hereditary, then what if my kids had it? What if the doc was right and we were teaching them that alcohol, used for "medicinal purposes" was ok? They'd already been passed the depression gene, what if I'm also passing down the "substances can fix it" gene?

How much had alcohol affected our marital relationship that I hadn't looked at?

How much of my current memory loss, which was a growing concern, had to do with alcohol usage or the combination of meth/alcohol? Surely, I'd always been a forgetful person; adding age and multi-task parenting - forget it. But how much was because of chemical abuse? Was it repairable?

Yea....those were concerns, but damn it. I'm just not going to give up something that's not a problem - for me or anyone else is my life.

Isolation

2010-01-14T10:43:00.002-06:00

We separated after that - and having just written that, I'd meant to reiterate, that we both went our separate ways to grieve. However, I can see that we did, in actuality, separate for a good week. Have a literal "marital separation". We just continued to live in the same house together.

He kept wondering "How could I?", reinforcing that I needed major help. I'd been right in his anger about Mary - "No wonder you tried to get me to like her - she was your supplier! And you allowed me to help her out (monetarily)! He just "didn't get it", he's said. How would my dissatisfaction and anger lead to drugs?

I suggested again that we go together for therapy so that the doc could help him understand that connection and help him with these feelings of hurt and betrayal, he focused once again on my being the bad one. The person that needed help was me. And if I thought for one instant that after working 60 hours a week that he'd be coming home to do housework, I was sadly mistaken. Again, he reassured me that if it weren't for the kids, he wouldn't stick around.

I told him to go. Leave now. Go to the lake house. He wasn't leaving the kids, he said. (Not with a sicko.) I suggested I could leave. Stay somewhere else.

"I couldn't care less what you do."

For the following week, we lived together - but around each other. Not speaking. I'd come to bed and find the pillows stacked down the middle of the bed. No possible opportunity for skin contact during our sleeping hours. He'd talk to the kids while I stood next to them, doing his best to ignore me. I was really unsure where we were. Where this would go. How long we'd keep this charade up.

If like any other blowout - though of course, none nearly as serious as this one - it would go unresolved or undiscussed. It was typical for him to either do a complete 180 and say he was sorry, he was a "bad husband", buy me flowers OR we'd just never revisit the argument again. I wouldn't bring it up later because it was such a big deal for me to confront it in the first place; we'd just keep on keeping on.

In pure co-dependent style, if I wasn't complaining, our marriage was great. No arguments. Living life "in harmony". It was easiest not to confront any issues and just make myself happy in what ever way I could. Sidestep the roadblocks. And Jim, he never had many complaints. Either I was good at guessing his needs and melding to them or with the slightest hint of perceived criticism, I'd be on my feet to guess, assume, and do more. Maybe he was truly happy with me - with everything that I did. Understanding what I do now, though, I don't think that's rational. No one, even the best of couples or friends, lives in complete harmony with each other. We're two separate people with different backgrounds, philosophies in life, perceptions about the world around us - there's no way two people can be without conflict for 18 years. (the length of our marriage by that time) There's going to be conflict, differences of opinion, needs that go unmet, compromises that need to occur on both sides - what matters more is how you voice it and come to resolution. Voicing it, though, before it becomes some perceived catastrophe of misunderstood (non)communication.

I think part of the reason I kept my feelings/thoughts hidden was because I'd felt that his love/our marriage was very conditional. Though, now, I can see that I'd just replaced my mother and my fear of her displeasure with my husband. That substitution was simple; he, like my mom, holds himself and others to such high standards. When he's wronged, the majority of his immediate reaction is in response to the confirmation that people are bound to hurt or take advantage of him, wanting at first to retaliate. Then rid them from his life. On more occasions than not, he'd rather cut off the diseased part than fix the problem. There had been many references, especially the more successful he'd gotten, though admittedly said in jest, about alimony (he'd fight giving me half) or that he'd find a newer prettier model. I'd always treated them with humor, responding with a joke right back (that I'd have no difficulty finding the newer prettier stud myself). I truly believe however, that many threatening jokes have a subtle hint of honesty. There was no doubt in my mind that he could just sever the diseased limb, cauterize and move on. He'd hurt, certainly, but that would be the preferred solution.

Isolation.....it seems like a simple "punishment". Each of you merely stay clear of the other. How can a NON action be that painful, really? Worse in many ways than the opposite, though. There's no way to know where the other person stands. The fear and anxiety of the unknown was worse than hearing his anger. The ache was more than just emotional, it hurt deep within the smallest bone of my body. Looking at him, I know he felt the same way. For me, there was guilt for my silence that allowed our marriage to get this far down into the pit, an intense sadness for what we'd become, disappointment in myself and surely, him, for not being the compassionate, understanding, supportive husband I needed. Even anger, seeing his actions as immature in his inability to understand how my state of mind could lead to drugs, refusing to seek professional help to save our marriage. I was uneasy and anxious for what would happen, but surprised too that our marriage wouldn't be able to survive this. Maybe another form of denial, but I thought our marriage was stronger than that.

Underneath it all, if I allowed myself a moment's thought in health, I recognized a growing bud of hope. For me, at least. That no matter what, I was becoming stronger, every day a better version of myself the day before. That this awful thing that I'd done to myself and our family would be painful, yes - but no matter what happened, good or bad - it'd be the major turning point in my life. I was ready to dig in and learn - with him or without him. It would be a lesson of all lessons that gave me opportunity to open my eyes and grow. Like God's metaphorical sledge hammer to the head that I apparently needed to wake up out of my co-dependent slumber. I was 41. It was time.

Disgusting and Naked

2010-01-12T20:42:00.002-06:00

This is an ugly memory. Thankfully, we've moved far beyond it. But it's not for the timid.

I'd come from such a high that weekend with my church ladies. They'd pumped me up and helped me to face doing what was inevitable. The other biggest co-dependent relationship in my life was with my husband. I needed to come clean if I was ever to start anew. There was little we could do together if he wasn't aware of what we were dealing with. My doc suggested that we could tell him together - but I knew him. Knew he was an untrusting soul anyway. He'd feel ganged up on if I dragged him into a meeting without having a reason for being there in the first place. I knew he was a reactionary person - quick to react, sometimes scary in that reaction.....but that he'd always came around. Plus, he'd used cocaine in college too. We'd used together a few times. His older sisters were flower children of the 70's - drugs weren't taboo from his own history. Maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible thing to reveal.

I'd set out a goal to tell him that coming weekend. And it was strange how the day seemed to be opening itself up to give us the alone time to be able to share this deep, hidden secret. My kids, Ian and Mariah, were out with friends. I could see that there were going to be several hours ahead of us that we'd be alone.

My heart was slowing in trepidation...but I was ready. I knew what I needed to do. I could do this.

But of course, he had other plans on his mind. We were alone. For several hours.

We could have sex.

It'd been a long time.

(sigh)

What to do. We really hadn't had sex in a while. Maybe by making love, it'd put him in a better frame of mind to hear what I needed to tell him. Sex always had a way of making us feel intimate, close and loving for days afterward. Too, if I told him ahead of time, there's no way he'd ever get to wanting it later. Maybe it'd be best to satisfy that itch now.

So says the well-trained co-dependent that I was. Satisfy his needs first.

And so....there we were, satiated and spent. Holding each other, spooning. Full of satisfied togetherness.

My heart beating.

Do it.

Say it.

I need to tell you something.

What.

I've been a meth amphetamine addict

for

a year and a half.

Silence.

More silence.

WHAT?!

He sits up to look at me.

He has this pulsing vein between his eyebrows. This crevice between his eyes. This look about his face when he's angry with you that makes you feel like you're nothing. You're absolute scum.

I couldn't have been more naked.

More alone.

More ugly.

I gathered the large, king sized pillows to me, trying to cover my nakedness.

For a fleeting second, I thought, why in the hell did I ever think this would be a good idea? To tell him when I was at my most vulnerable? Most...visible. How could I ever believe that he'd take this even remotely....ok?

You're sick, he said.

I know. I'm getting help. I want us to go together.

Me? Me?! You're the sick one! I can't believe you!

Tears flowed down my face as I tried everything to make myself not feel so exposed, so naked. Gathering the bedsheets, the pillows.

You don't know. You don't know how ashamed I've felt......please......please don't....

I should think so! I hope so! What'd you expect me to think? What'd you expect?!

You disgust me. If I could leave, I would. If we didn't have kids, I'd be outta here. I could you know. I could take them and leave. You wouldn't be left with a penny. They don't look highly on drug addicts who are mothers.

You're sick.

So sick.

I'd forgotten how untrusting he was of others. That the one person he most trusted in his life, hiding this lie - any lie - would be a betrayal.....tenfold.

I gathered my clothes in the empty room he'd left and felt sure it was over.

I was a sick, ugly, horribly shameful person.....but there were no more secrets. It was out.

Peeling the Onion

2010-01-12T16:06:00.003-06:00

I realized how important it was to cut Mary from my life. How little she was motivated to quit. And despite how much I realized our friendship was completely wrong for me, how trapped I felt. It was a relief in thinking about letting go, but at the same time, I agonized over what it might do to her.

And realized that, damn it, the doc was probably right.

I'd been in therapy for probably about 4-6 weeks before I'd started becoming frustrated with him. I was understanding so much about myself, and yet he always just sat there like a bump on a log.

"Uh-huh." "Okay."

"I'm wondering why I'm not getting more affirmation from you, " I said at the end of one of our sessions.

"Just what exactly is it that you'd like me to affirm?" he said with his dead, flatline mouth.

How much I'm uncovering! My insight! My willingness to look within!

"I think you're incredibly in denial. I'd be more willing to affirm you if you got rid of Mary, stopped drinking, and told your husband."

.........
.........
.........

WHAT THE FUCK?! Look at all I'm doing! He felt to me like a disapproving parent. He said he was worried about me. A ticking time bomb. He thought it was dangerous that I was still drinking while going through such an emotional time in my life when I'd already told him that I'd used alcohol and drugs to escape pain in the past. He wanted me to see my brother and mom as alcoholics and how I was living the same patterns of behavior - not only damaging myself, but in turn, setting my children up to see the use of alcohol as an acceptable mode for comfort. And that Mary was keeping me within my co-dependent thinking, and waiting in the sidelines with the "comfort" supply. He wasn't a drug/alcohol counselor - he wanted me to visit one to figure out if I was in as much trouble as he thought I might be.

Okay. In for a penny, in for a pound. Let's go.

But first, Mary. I decided to write to her. I wanted her to be able to fall back on my written word after she got over hearing that I wasn't going to be there for her anymore. I knew she'd be shocked. Devastated. And I didn't want her to have to trust her memory about what I really said.

In part, I wrote, "As painful as I know this will be to hear, I need to make a complete break from you. I can't be your friend and I can't be your employer. After you receive this letter, I would appreciate it if you'd respect my wishes and not contact me or my family in the future. I've struggled wih our friendship since quitting, knowing how much I caretake of you/worry about you/want to help you, and realizing within my life that this is a harmful issue with me. It's been so hard for me to think about you not being a part of my life - not only because I *like* you - but because I've been so overly concerned about what my not being an emotional support might do to you in your life. I worry about how alone, how overwhelmed you feel. Even knowing or beginning to understand my own co-dependencies and how much it affected my relationship with you in trying to be there for you/shoulder your trials/pain, I kept on because I knew that you needed me. But when I realized that you don't have the strength or motivation right now to quit as I do, nor the motivation or concern for my own sobriety, I understood clearly that it was important to let you go....no matter the consequences to you. Even if I only kept you as an employee, your lifelong attachment to (your supplier - a family member) is a temptation I can't risk.
....if you care about me and my life at all, please think about me and respect my wishes by not contacting me. This has been a very painful decision - but one that was crucial for me in my recovery and health. I'd urge you to think about yours, and not push that boundary."

(Aside: an update on Mary - she did fairly well in respecting my boundaries. I've only heard from her a handful of times through text messages. She left town for awhile to live with her "previously" cocaine addicted brother in CA, leaving behind her two children and the puppy I helped her to buy with her parents. She's since returned, working a couple different jobs, but neither cleaning or painting. She swears she's always been clean. I've not talked with her or seen her in person since this letter.)

Thankfully, immediately following this, our small group had planned on going to our lake house for a "church lady retreat". A "CLR" as they've come to be known: we started taking them annually and for one night only, but now it's increased to bi-annually and two nights.

The church ladies. Tongue-in-cheek because we most certainly are NOT. Imagine to yourself the "church ladies" of old. The blue hairs of the church, standing behind the luncheon line, casserole bearing, Bible weilding, tongue wagging, shaking their fingers at all those sinners. Ready to save the world with their Bible in tow.

What we were, however, was a small group of nine women that gathered together - some reluctantly at first, but dutifully - to study various religious group workbooks that are widely available now. What started off slowly in study became something more magical and unexplainable in our hearts. We found that we were able to question and ponder and doubt, but moreso, we had learned to trust each other enough to learn that we were all broken souls. That we could laugh, cry and lift each other up in His spirit. No judgement. But holding each other accountable, encouraging one another to live in His image. Simple....but indescribable in its power within all of our hearts.

Maybe through Divine intervention, but it turned out that just three of us could go. Me, Dana, and my good friend, Louise. Dana already knew. And Louise and I- we'd been friends long before small group. We shared alto voices, a laugh during choir practices, and seemingly a love of the Lord, but as well, a reluctance to fully let go into a full Christian spirit.

My husband and I had been blessed to find and acquire this little slice of heaven. It was a 3 bedroom home on 5 acres. We refinished the basement, adding another guestroom and living area, and purchased another 10 acres of wooded and meadowed land for 4-wheeling, hiking, and (intended) paintball wars. My parents also left us with the canoe that I'd practically been born and raised in. Along with the skiboat and a couple waverunners, we also purchased a couple of kayaks. So...it's a resort just a short hour and a half away from home that allows both of us to get away from it all. Or share with friends.

I can remember the drive because I was scared shitless to tell Louise. She sat behind me, Dana sitting in the passenger seat as support. I was ashamed of myself because I'd been lying to her. I'd told her that I'd lost all my weight through The South Beach Diet. Sure, it'd started that way, but add meth to the DIEt plan and I'd stepped into an accelerated program to wipe away the pounds. I'd never really needed to lose that much - most people having more serious weight issues wouldn't have called me over-weight or even chubby. I'd just had that middle aged "puffiness".....and a lifelong inaccurate self image about my weight.

So, I can remember my spilling it all out in a bluster of words. Scared of her reaction. Glad I was sitting in front of her and was unable to see her reaction. I was fearful of her hurt that I'd told Dana and not her first. And moreso, that I was a liar AND street scum.

Her reaction? "I'm really glad it was that and not The South Beach Diet."

WHAT?! Are you kidding me?

"I'm so glad because I kept trying that diet and working out like mad, and I just couldn't dump the weight.....all the while you were shrinking before my eyes."

I was afraid of looking like a loser and she was glad she wasn't a failure.

And that was it. No judgement. We spent the weekend laughing at ourselves, riding the waverunners, and talking about addiction. How her mother had issues with alcohol. Her anger and how she'd have to deal with the repercussions of it. And how she was teaching her kids about it so they knew what a danger it was to them as well.

On many CLR's, it's been a tradition for us to write each one, sharing what their affect on us has been, what a blessing they have been in our lives. I share, in part, what these two angels wrote to me that weekend, because it was the culmination of what became a weekend filled with strength, encouraging me to move forward and do what I truly needed in order to become emotionally and spiritually whole.

First, tell my husband...then get into alcohol/drug rehab.

Their letters to me:

(from Louise)
"I don't make friends easily and I'm not good at keeping them. Not sure if part of it is the friends I made were not right for me...? Anyway, you are a big part of why I stayed in choir. When you joined, you were the epitomy of everything I wanted in my life. A wonderful caring friend, mother and wife. Your sense of humor has gotten me through many a rough night when I used choir as escape from the problems in my life. Your ability to find resolutions to problems and your strength of will power was all I inspired to have. You've been my role model, and that has not changed, nor will it ever no matter what happens in the future. When you asked me to join a small group, I was scared...... You've taught me that it's ok to question God's purpose, and helped me understand it's ok to have problems. I admire your strength and resolve to make your life in a way that is best for you and your family and God. Your friendship means more to me than you'll ever realize, and I hope you know I'm always here for you, I as I know you'll be there for me. I truly believe that God brought us together, first using our passion for music, then slowly inching us together by resolving problems. Putting us together in times of trouble to get to know each other and finally to be able to love and trust each other. Small group has come to mean so much more to me than just "Bible" study. You have such a strength in you that you haven't seen in yourself, and in the last few weeks I think you started seeing it yourself. Your ability to be a caring person is a wonderful trait, and something I know God has instilled in you as one of your missions in service. I think you've started realizing this based on Boards and committees you've jointed, writing and questioning the "Gospels" or "thinking" of Jesus' time is something we've done often in small group and I often wonder if writing isn't another passion given to you? Music is one of your best "God given" abilities and I know this is one ministry God has chosen for you. I wonder if Stephen Ministry or Youth Ministry is where God wants you. I think you could be one of God's chosen people to bring others to Christ, through your own experiences. I love you lots - your strength and kindness show in all you do!"

(from Dana)
I am so proud of you! You have come to a point at which your choice could have easily been to keep going a different direction. I can't imagine my life without you in it. I am so thankful that God helped to bring you back to us - those who love you so much. You have displayed faith and courage well beyond anything you give yourself credit for. Just keep looking. Put yourself and your needs FIRST - especially before others who don't love themselves enough to survive on their own and thrive on pulling you to their level. You are a wonderful mother, wife, friend and have so much to offer. Thank you for your friendship which I cherish and am so blessed to have. I love you - our souls are one.

Cookie

2010-01-11T18:29:00.003-06:00

The first thing my therapist did was suggest a book called, "Co-Dependent No More", by Melody Beatty. "Co-dependency"....that was a new word for me. I thought it had something to do with living with an alcoholic in the family. And surely, that's where it probably started out.

There's still lots of controversy over what it really means, but there is much agreement that it's a dysfunctional mode of thinking that affects most/all of that person's relationships and is characterized by denial, low self-esteem, compliance, and/or control patterns. For many, it may have started because of an alcoholic loved one, or it may have been the result of growing up within a dysfunctional family life. Sometimes, the cause isn't clear. Typical is the person that denies their true feelings or has trouble identifying what they are, feels completely dedicated to the well-being of others, is often a harsh self-critic, never feeling they're quite "good enough", having poor self esteem and self-worth. The person may find that she uses sex to fill a need for love and appreciation, or she might compromise her own integrity or values to avoid conflict or displeasure from others. The co-dependent is also extremely loyal, staying in situations that are harmful to themselves. Very sensitive to other's feelings, she often adopts those exact feelings, shouldering them as her own. She may also be controlling, feeling overly responsible for other's happiness or success.

Reading this, I very much saw myself in its description -- then again, what Christian, adult woman was NOT on this list?! Again, we were all *taught* to be this way! Being selfless...attune to others and having a giving heart....this wasn't a good thing?

In those first weeks with the doc and the book, I began to learn about detachment. Needing to separate myself from others: Allow myself to have thoughts, feelings, decisions that weren't first based on another's.

I could see how I'd formed my first co-dependent relationship from my mother. Well, no....I learned it from her. She was the queen of co-dependency, being highly stressed and worried about creating an image for the world. She appeared to me to be very aware of other's possessions/successfulness, their children, feeling overly responsible for her family and how they presented themselves to the world, because of course, *everything* was a reflection on her. She always drank wine as I was growing up, but except for a period in my adolescence when I was rebellious, I never saw her as drinking to excess. But it was definitely a coping mechanism for her. And my brother and I, we tiptoed around her, trying our best not to set her off. I was afraid to speak my true feelings because I was fearful of her yelling; her over-reaction. Still, yelling and expressions of extreme anger can cause me to cringe as if I were right back to my childhood. Envisioning that kind of anger has kept me from acknowledging myself as an adult. Detachment, in this case, would entail me being able to live *openly* without the fear of disappointing her were I to stray from her ideal path for my life. I was able to achieve this best with distance - and certainly, distance helped her detach from her children as well. However, I'd still not been able to ever conceive of telling her, either of them, that I'd been involved with meth amphetamine. I'd never want them to think that poorly of me. I knew I'd be a great disappointment to them.

With my husband, co-dependency didn't seem to rear its ugly presence until I stopped working. Before my second child was born and I was still part of the workforce, I was more able to set limits. Yet, as he became a successful doctor, having more demanding needs of his own, I slowly began to ignore my own in order to please him. He always needed a good night's sleep, alone time that was chaos-free, or "selfish time" to "lie on the couch and veg" or watch a game because his days were long and arduous. Because I didn't have that big important job, my day wasn't as busy or emotionally demanding, I needed to make concessions for him. I needed to pick up the slack. I learned easily to deny any feelings of anger or disappointment, priding myself that I wasn't as needy, as worrisome, obsessive as he. I could handle chaos so much better. Detachment from my husband would have to mean that I'd be willing to risk his anger at my asking for more from him. Risk his feeling disappointment that I wasn't the girl he married; I wasn't as low maintenance as he'd hoped. Risk his disappointment with me that I didn't automatically try to make his life easier. And though he'd never given me an ounce of worry about other women, I risked the fear of losing him to someone that really WAS better at being a selfless mother and wife than I was capable of being.

I'd be remiss here if I didn't also mention my issues with money. The more affluent we became, I can see I became more dysfunctional in my thinking. I'd never felt that the money was "ours". It was from his own hard work. He *was* very good at his job; a good, conscientious surgeon, but even more, people liked him. He has a good heart that's easily apparent - his success is mainly from referrals, both from inside the medical community and the patients/families he treats. So, it felt as though people might look at me with envy thinking that I'd just hooked my anchor to a star and was living happily off the fatted calf. I've always had difficulty with outward expressions of affluence because I didn't want people to look at me with a question, "And what do YOU do?" My life - everything I did- had become a silent mode of proving to others I was worthy of the way we were living. And in the meantime, I agonized over returning to the workforce so I could prove I was monetarily valuable too. Struggling with the desire to be home with my kids, but wanting to look - and FEEL - more valuable and important, too.

Detachment from my kids is much more difficult. There's a very gray line about what I am responsible for and when feeling their consequences is a much healthier option. It was much easier for me to allow my kids to fail when they were younger - to literally fall into the pool, for instance - so it could teach them the value of watching where they were going. But as they've grown, it's been very hard to detach and watch them fail if I know that I might be able to prevent it. Having been the child of an over responsible parent, it feels like a failing parent if I'm not standing over them with a rod if they don't follow a narrow path of "the perfect child". Daily, I still struggle with allowing each of them, but especially my daughter, the chance to make her own decisions and feel her mistakes. Cuz mistakes are bigger now. More long-term. Can be more emotionally damaging.

I don't know all the answers for detachment with my kids yet....I'm still learning.

Harder still when your husband and you don't always agree.

Lastly, I was in great need at that time with detaching from my "friend", Mary, and housekeeper. She'd lived a hard life growing up and was still struggling as a single mom, recently divorced from an abusive ex, and trying to handle a rebellious, depressed, addict son. I was her closest friend. How could I detach from her? Abandon her? I was afraid she'd become suicidal, or start using again. Here I was living "in the lap of luxury" by nothing that I'd actively done; how I could turn my back on someone so obviously in need? I thought, why shouldn't I help out, make allowances for her, be more understanding? My life IS easier. Detaching might mean letting her down in her expectations emotionally of me as a friend. I didn't want her to feel alone without anywhere to turn. Her involvement with me had helped her personal strength - how could I abandon her when I had so much going for me? I knew it'd be best to let the relationship go, but I felt trapped in it. She couldn't afford therapy, so I was sharing what I was learning. Doing the book work, the journaling, seeing my therapist....and sharing my gift with her. Helping her to heal too.

Until, one day, she sent me a text...."Guess what I got?! Guess what (my neice) dropped into my purse just this morning?! Come visit me....come get a bump!!"

Co-dependency

2010-01-09T11:38:00.003-06:00

During that first week, my mind was going a mile a minute. Thinking about the why's. Analyzing myself. Amazingly, so blind to myself that I didn't see what was right in front of me. Up until this surprising trek down shame's lane, I was an open book. I'd tell you anything about me - even the unattractive stuff - I felt there was a little imperfection in everyone, so what's so bad to hide?

But realizing that I seeked out needy people in my life so that I could feed my self-worth by feeding them was a giant revelation.

My brother and his wife and son came to visit for the first time in 6 years that week. We traveled up to our lakehouse and spent a couple days boating. It didn't occur to me at first, but watching him was like watching myself. I could see how much he catered to his wife and rather than loving appreciation, his efforts were met with belittling. (Though my husband has never been belittling to me. Expectant, entitled and unappreciative for some things, but never mean or belittling.) I saw how both of us just Do, Do , Do........and was clearly able to see the lack of self-worth in him easier than I spotted it at first in me. But I knew there was some connection. Our mother always suffered from a lack of self-esteem, attempting to gain it through the appreciation she received from others through her efforts to please them. Taking on so much responsibility for others, jumping through hoops. To this day, it pains especially my husband and daughter to watch her. She's just *aching* for attention and approval. And then feels such a tremendous amount of guilt when something doesn't work out the way she'd hoped, even if it were out of her control. Like she'd not done enough.

I could see both her children - my brother and I - had learned those lessons well. We were doing the exact same thing.

I began to recognize that I didn't set boundaries with people because, like my mother and brother, I was so gung-ho on helping them to see what a good person I was. How valuable I was to them. Help them to see how much they needed me. Over time, as they learned what I'd taught them and took advantage of what I'd been willing to do for so long, I'd then back up and feel resentment with the unbalanced relationship. And feel cheated. Used.

Yet, I wasn't sure how to draw a line. Worse, how to go back and change the rules when I'd be obviously willing to take on so much for so long. How does one establish what *their* responsibility is and what is mine? Where does love and caring fall into it - wanting to help a friend, a loved one out even though you know it's not your responsibility? What really IS the definition of a good friend/wife/mother? Where does one draw the line as to what you really do want to offer, because feeling good through service is not a bad attribute,...... and what inevitably becomes to feel like obligation? Where do you draw that boundary?

Change.....change in those close relationships started looking very scary to me. I'd let it go on for so long without saying a word. How does one change up the rules? How do you go back and say you want to change the rules and not feel like a failing wife or friend who just can't "cut the mustard". I'd taught them how valuable, how wonderful, how good I was in being able to DO.....how would I now be defined when I said I really couldn't.

My husband was doing nothing other than what I'd taught him. And frankly, what he'd seen. What we'd all grown up with. Both our moms bent over backward caring for their family. Taking on way more than what a mother and wife was supposed to. But it was their job! At least the thinking back before the 90's. Back before women joined the workforce. Where home life had to be a bit more balanced between husband and wife out of necessity. Sure, working women from what I understood were still struggling to make that balance, but as a stay-at-home mother, I had no reason to ask for change. It felt like a failure to me, worse - selfish, given Jim's demanding job to ask for anything different.

Despite my extreme unhappiness, that even *I* couldn't face for fear of the work of change....and how that major piece of change would play out in my relationships, I was more willing to sit in silence. Change me. But no, not to tell my husband. I felt I could never, ever tell him because he'd tie all of this to my supplier. It would be her fault. And he'd have been right all along, he'd say - she was a loser. She was *not* a loser - she and I were the same in so many ways - nor could I give him the satisfaction of being right. He likes to say he's *always* right. No way would I allow her to be shoved under the bus, for him to think he was right, and to not take responsibility for my own decisions.

Dana sent me to her beloved therapist with great anticipation. I went, open with everything, the drug use.....but especially my revelations over the last week. Why.....I'd practically been a shrink to myself in that short week. He should be proud of how far I'd come in such a short time! He should pay ME for doing half his work for him!!

Awakening Anger

2010-01-08T11:15:00.006-06:00

Coming off that shit, I can look back now and see that it threw me into a great darkness. And having the awareness of hindsight, I can also see now that my deep depression after Kirby died was at least in part, withdrawl from meth. Not that those feelings weren't real - both then and at this point, but I do understand that despite my not feeling any sort of 'withdrawl symptoms', that this awakening into darkness was fueled from a lack of the joy juice in my system.

Most of my thoughts at that time were centered around shame. Wondering how in the hell someone like me would get involved with that at this time in my life. Surely, it's understandable in college when you were first free from the constant parental overshadowing and all your friends were doing the exact same thing to one degree or another. But as a middle aged active Christian woman, wife of a doctor in an "upper-crust"community, busy with two kids in elementary school? Who does that?! What kind of deranged kind of person? What was so wrong with me that I'd make such an ugly choice and risk so much?

I began to think of the night before, listening to our newest small group member. Her anger over her home life. How much she gave and gave without much thought, feeling taken advantage of.

And it hit a nerve.

I had no doubt in my mind that God put all those events together to OPEN MY EYES. No drug, the chapter on temptation and revealing your secrets, Jeanette's (our newest member) overpowering the conversation with my own struggle, even my suggestion to her at the time to journal to God - which I then complied with myself - to help her see. And ended up helping me to see.

It's strange to me now how much I deluded myself into a false sense of happiness, how in the dark I was at the time to how angry I was. But with time, I do understand it.

My mother was a very angry person -- and she showed it quite openly. Looking back, I know that she felt overwhelmed as a mother. My dad traveled all the time, so she felt pressured to take care of everything. And as a perfectionist - it was a never ending job, full of potential for failure....that the neighbors might see. All that anxiety and emotion and lack of control over everything at once would come spilling out in a vision that was often not very pretty.

And not for me. *I* would never be that screaming, red faced, race-around-the-house-in-a-panic-like Edith Bunker type person. Thankfully, that wasn't even in my persona; I was much more of a laid-back personality, but it certainly taught me to swallow my anger. Pick your battles - or not at all. It wasn't worth the upset.

And yet, I began to acknowledge a slow to boil anger deep inside. I recognized how much I did take care of everything - willingly. I realized how I'd taught him what a powerful, independent, capable person I was! Because I was so willing, he was more than happy to load it on. Expect more. He had long hours building a cardio-thoracic practice; I was responsible for anything that happened in the home as well as the kids. When they were babies, I had no help during the night because he needed his sleep. Keep them quiet! I'm on call tomorrow! (It's a joke with us now that I yelled back, "I'm on call *every* night!) I always nursed, so I was the one that always had to comfort; he got the squeals of delight. His schedule never changed with kids. He'd come home from work, give me and the kids a kiss -- and out he'd go for a run while I juggled the hungry toddler with a baby in my arms, stirring up dinner. Weekends, the kids would be cranky, and he'd be frustrated, head out the door saying he could get more peace in the office. We'd go on vacation, and he'd leave to read the paper in peace while I was left with fighting siblings, arguing over what to wear and eating enough for breakfast.

I'd always loved kids; spent my early years with dozens of babysitting jobs, and devoted my career as a social worker to them, helping teens in a mental health hospital, and later with disabled youngsters in the school system. I knew I wanted kids early in our marriage - the rollercoaster ride waiting for Ian to arrive 5 years later was agonizing. Being so child-focused, I had no idea - NO CLUE- how draining they were.

I was a great mom, though. I wanted to be part of it all. I raced through all the playground tunnels with them, pushed and under-ducked all the swings, played hours of dinosaurs and Barbie, listened to more than my share of Baby songs and Disney movies. Had the play dates and enjoyed organizing the support for Baby'n'me groups. Lied awake with them at night, trying to get them to stay in their beds, cleaned up the vomit, and listened to them scream for the doctor's needle.

Of course it was draining.

And of course, they misbehaved. Looking back, I'm proud of how I handled their little wills. I knew to never give in to crying, was a master of time-outs or 'basket holds' for the all-out tantrums. I taught them to say sorry and please and to hug after they squabbled. For the most part, I think I did it without their being afraid of me - as I was of my own mother.

But heavens, don't hit them. No spanking. "You don't want to be your mother," he'd tell me.

I'm glad we didn't. Corporal punishment really isn't necessary.......99% of the time.

But there were times that, frankly, it was needed! They were obstinate. I'd tried the rest. They needed a little pop on the bottom. Not hard. A little shock.

"You're becoming your mom, " he'd say. He'd criticize, but when left to the kids himself, he refused to discipline. He'd allow me to sleep in and I'd hear all hell breaking loose outside the door.

"Be a parent," I'd say. But he had a hard time offering a strict word with them, risking the tears and conflict, when he had so little time home with them. He was the fun Daddy, I was the mean Mom.

Even as they grew, I'd set the limits. Dad would say he'd "smooth things over with me". He became the "go to guy" because he could make all their wishes come true. My expectations and limits became fiction.

He kept begging me for more kids. Said that I was going back on my side of the bargain - we said we'd have four.

Are you kidding me. He had no clue.

In the house, I was living a 50's movie set. Cooking the meals and cleaning up as well. Picking up after everyone's messes - even the papers, magazines, clothing that my husband tossed on the floor, vowing that he'd pick up later. Whatever the house needed, it was my responsibility. If I wasn't willing to do it, I organized to have it done. Weekends were not to be spent working on the house, he said. No "Honey Do Lists" in this house. Animals, which we loved....we were working on re-creating Noah's Ark....were met with criticism as well. Have they been fed? I see crap in the sunroom! Come over here and pick it up! He often argued that with all my free time, I could at least pay the bills and take care of the pool too.

And take away his only two tasks to the house? No way.

I was, as the title of this blog suggests, married to my *house* and the demands of the people within it.

And then I'd justify those ugly thoughts with "this *was* my job." This was exactly what I'd signed up for. I wanted to stay home and be with the kids. All of this really was my responsibility. He worked outside, I worked inside the home. I was blessed that I was able to do it. He really was a great guy; charming, compassionate, fun, responsible, wanting nothing more than to come home to his family.

But then I'm reminded of a metaphorical situation here. My parents were in town with us once - we'd taken them to a Rams game. My mom and I stepped up to the counter and ordered beers and a small meal for the four of us which totalled some astronomical price. And not once did my mom reach for her own wallet. We were making the big bucks now, so it was just expected that'd we pay for it. And of course I planned on it - they were our guests to the game. But she never once offered to help out.

That was the feeling. It *was* my responsibility as a stay at home mom to take care of things. But in that expectation, that entitlement, without automatically helping out when we were both at home together in the evenings and weekends felt...ugly. Disrespectful. Selfish. I was being used.

And yet, who was I to complain? He *did* work long arduous hours. He had peoples lives in his hands. It was a stressful, demanding job! How could I ask for more when he got home? How could I be so ungrateful? Even if my gut is telling me he's being selfish, how can I complain when I have so much? When any girl would just love to trade places with me?

So I said nothing.

I was the sweet, agreeable, powerful wife.

And my anger grew.

The Secret is Out

2010-01-07T09:12:00.009-06:00

I don't think I'd ever had such little sleep as we did that weekend. It amazed me to see the time on the clock; it'd be 3am or 5am, and it'd feel like the middle of the day to my mind. I'd always had a good internal clock, so that memory stands out strongly in my head.

Your body, however, takes a beating on this crap. (Actually, given the state of my memory at this time in my life, I'm sure your brain does too. I mean, it's made with freakin' battery acid - how could it not?) But as you'd start to come down, the lack of food and sleep would cause your body to feel like you'd been put through a press. I'd feel actual physical achiness and bone weary. You'd have to force food down or agonize over trying to fall over that brink into sleep so that you could function as normal. That weekend, however, there was nothing to keep me from going for the remedy in the form of that bitter powdery line. I didn't have to keep up any "normal" looking role or be a responsible, attentive parent.

That evening (or maybe it was the middle of the night) we were tackling the last of our project - the stairwell. It's the highest ceiling in our place. There's a main room in the "cottage" with an open stairwell that runs up the side to a balcony and our master bedroom above it. So, the ceiling there, which I needed to "cut in" is probably at 20 feet from the main floor. I had wedged the ladder from one of the top steps, leaning the top edge to the angled ceiling opposite the stair. And was using this angled base as a

Mary freaked, and had me increasingly convinced that I'd not thought this plan through - and that somehow, the ladder would work it's way through or beyond the ceiling and cause me to tumble to the floor if I put much weight on it. I laughed her off; I was a good student in high school and college! I knew there was no way, mechanically, that the ladder could come down. But it still shocks me, today, how much the drug could make you so paranoid that reality was unclear. I look at that wall today and still see it's flaws, I was so eager to get down from that ladder that night.

Anyway, the painting was finished and we head home. What's vivid for me that particular night, as I lay awake once again next to Joe, was a strong feeling that I'd burnt a hole clear through the back of my nose into my brain. I could feel it burning, the air rushing through it. Couldn't believe what I was willing to do to myself.

That Monday was the beginning of the rest of my life. I'd like to say it was because I'd decided that was enough. That I was done with the shame, the lying, the lowering of myself. Rather, I'd called Mary when I woke up experiencing that achy, weary blood-drained-from-me feeling. And she gave me a gift.

She told me that her supplier had gone to jail. Apparently, he'd been this tri-state's main guy. The Feds had been following him for months. Though I'd never gone with her to pick up our supply, I felt my first sense of "luck". He'd been watched for months, and I'd been just one step away.

Ironically, that very night was my night to hold small group at our house. That's the strange thing in all of this. My double life kept me active at our church this entire time. I was involved there more than a couple times a week, either within the music ministry, singing every Sunday morning, helping out with planning retreats, writing for their monthly newsletter, or being candid every other week with my own, dearly thought of, small group members. I didn't feel as though I was living a lie. As much as I was devoted to my addiction, I was equally devoted to my spiritual life. Deep inside, I knew that He would offer me a way out and redemption, but up until that time I was just too weak to walk that path.

So, small group was at my house. As usual, I was procrastinating my reading for that evening. I was still achey, I needed to nap, the *last* thing I wanted to do was to host group, but that has always been my saving grace. I had to prove my goodness. Had to prove I wasn't as messed up as I felt. Had to follow through with the "good" role. Sitting down to read, a cold sweat ran down my spine. We were working on Rick Warren's Purpose Driven Life, and the chapter that week was on temptation. That we were as sick as our secrets. That a small group, a Christian community, couldn't be healthy when there were skeletons in your closet.

And I knew. I needed to tell. It was being held at my house, and we were on this specific chapter because I was meant to spill the beans. I'd flirted with the idea of doing that ever since Kirby died. I didn't like living in the shame that I experienced daily. Feeling like such a bad person. I mean, METH AMPHETAMINE! ME??  Just as people were always shocked to find out that I hid my smoking cigarettes, it was so out of my exterior character, they'd never suspect meth from a girl like me. But it all came back to the fear of losing the drug. And justifying it to myself that if no one knew, if I was holding up my end of normalcy, it couldn't really be that bad.

That night, sitting around my dining room table, a newer member monopolized the conversation. She'd been experiencing panic attacks out of the blue, and a severe depression. She came out of this depression feeling an overwhelming sense of anger, realizing how much she'd accomodated for everyone else in her home. How much everyone else's needs caused her to ignore her own which, in her own blindness at the time, caused the mental instability. I found no commonality in listening to her that night - I was blissfully happy in my own marriage and family life; no complaints. I just wished she'd shut up so I could follow through with telling someone about my (unexplained) use of meth.

Clearly, I remember the night coming to an abrupt halt that evening. When the discussion rolled back to the chapter in the book, the skeletons in the closet, I said, "When I read this, I really wondered what people here tonight would be willing to share about their own closets. Who would be willing to really open up. Lay it all out there."

Utter silence.

It was like I was sitting there completely naked.  All eyes were on
me.

"Like what?" my friend, Dana, asked.

Think. Think quick. What might we - any of us - be hiding? What am *I* hiding?
Oh God, I'm not ready.

"Well, I mean, I smoke.  Not many people know that.  My kids don't
anyway."

Silence again.  Eyes.

Taking a large cross with a chain attached on the table, Dana said, "Well, it's not like your doing this." And she proceeded to pinch the chain into a line and lower her head to snuff the metal. This is imprinted on my mind like a grid. My heart stopped.

I was stunned. Oh. My. God. She knew. "No, no. Right. Nothing like that."

Who knows what happened after that. All I know is that it dragged interminally onward, Jeanette whining about her homelife and how selfish she was enjoying to be. I couldn't wait for them to all shut up and get the hell out of my house.

Until they actually were leaving and I thought, I'd not told. I missed my chance. This was it - if I didn't do it tonight, I was sure I'd go back. I'd find a way to get another connection. I needed a lifeline!

So, alone once again in my house, I reached for the phone. Dana - the one that surely knew anyway - was the best one to approach. She was ten years older than me. Non-judgemental. Wise. Loving. She was a single mom for several years and just...open-minded. I felt quite surely that she wouldn't throw the wrath of God on me.

I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I thought of hanging up several times as the phone rang.

"You know," I said.

"What?"

"You know what I"ve been doing.  You did that with the cross thing on the table.  You know."

She had no clue what I was talking about.  I had to lay it all out there in shame.  I felt like utter scum, street trash, telling her what I was doing behind everyone's back.  The life I was leading.  Meth ampetamine!  Oh my God!  How could I be doing
that?

As tears run down my cheeks as I write that memory, I'm humbled by how poorly I thought of myself. How much I'd deluded myself into believing that it was "no big deal". That I could still maintain "normal". And how blessed I was to find someone to confide in - someone that wouldn't condemn me to the hell I felt I deserved at that point. Someone that would love me enough to listen. To suggest help. To open the door to forgiveness.

It was the beginning of my spiritual journey. The real one. Not the "church going" one.

A Paint Job

2010-01-07T00:08:00.003-06:00

My last weekend with the stuff was August 5th and 6th of 2005. Mary and I went to our lakehouse to paint the main rooms - the family room and connecting kitchen, the hallway, and the kids' bedroom. I'd had a plan for colors in all 4 areas, and was excited to try separating the kid's bedroom wall into 3 equal horizontal stripes of nautical red, blue and yellow. I'd also brought along a rub-on wall mural that was a stone window looking out onto a water view. I saw no reason that we wouldn't finish all these projects in a day and an afternoon, returning the next night.

Mistake one. Forgot the ladder. Or at least thought we'd had one there.

We went next door to borrow one from the neighbor. Dear Mr. Rheins. He'd talk you into a stupor if you'd let him. Not sure if he couldn't stand his wife or he was just plain lonely, but I hated asking anything from him because I just knew I'd spend an hour more than I'd intended. And of course, when he came over, his wife needed to come to. Neither of them had seen the house since we'd moved in. We'd finished the basement - and I'd done a lot of the design and faux painting, so they wanted to come in and see.

She and her husband run a framing shop in town, so not only is she an expert in color choice for framing, but she became an expert for color on walls too....whether I was interested or not. She proceeded to tell me that the color we'd already painted in the kitchen was all wrong. That in the dusk, it'd look pink. That I should choose, rather, a lovely rust or adobe to match the random stone in the fireplace.

The gall. I never asked her. Yet, wouldn't you know, after she left that I couldn't get her opinion out of my mind. And as the sun was lowering on the horizon, it very much looked freakin' pink in the sunset.

Crap.

Out came the color wheel, and I flipped and switched through that thing, determined I'd find a better color than rust. Or adobe, for God's sake. She wouldn't be coming into OUR place later and find I'd switched to HER opinion. No way.

But there I was, an hour later, lugging back a beautiful shade of adobe to slap on the freakin' wall. She was, damn it, right. I vowed right then and there, she would never be invited back to our place.

Mistake two. Several hours lost.

Next, we tackled my kids' room. Measured it off all evenly so that the stripes didn't appear to converge into a faux distance. And taped. Then painted. And talked. And kept refreshing with a bump. I remember thinking that I'd never done that much of the stuff with Mary - had not spent that much time with her for so many consecutive hours. Not since Chicago.

We'd brought our two puppies with us. The new pup, Duchess (ironically, Duchess was a later litter from Kirby's mom - she happened to be expecting when Kirby was hit by a car) and my friend's pup, Boo, were playful siblings of the same litter. Being the good friend that I was, I sent monthly checks to pay off her puppy to the breeder - a full $650 bucks - as she worked hours cleaning in my home. Can you spell messed up?! She killed my dog, and I paid for hers.

But that's another fucked up story. I digress.

The dogs were playing and we'd fogotten to shut the door to the kids' room behind us. A big tray of yellow paint on the cream carpetted floors. And later, two sets of darling yellow footprints all over it. Lots of them. Like playful groupings of yellow daisies popping up out of the floor.

I could have cried. I tried scrubbing an area out. Then just decided to let it dry....and cut them out with scissors. To this day, it looks more like the two of them got hungry and tackled the carpet with their new sharp little teeth taking chunks of wool out and leaving divets all over their beautiful nautical room.

Mistake three.

Better do another bump.

And forget everything. Watch a movie. See if we could sleep later. And hope for better in the morning.

Oh yea, and call Jim, my husband, and beg for another day!

Power

2010-01-06T13:54:00.002-06:00

Just home from a 12-step meeting about the first step - powerlessness.

I've always liked the feeling of being in control and have prided myself in (the delusion) that I have done a spectacular job of being quite powerful.

As a kid, I was always pretty astute in being able to figure people out and spit out what they wanted. Pretty much a survival tool when I was younger because my parents my mom had such specific expectations for me and my brother. You didn't need any special sensitivity to figure her out though - she was very LOUD in letting you know what she wanted. The upshot of being in that environment, and in the effort not to step on the frequent perceived landmines, you learned to be ultra-sensitive to others' needs/desires/expectations. In fear of the bomb going off when I least expected it, I perceived so many potential blasts. Being proactive about it, I'd take action ahead of time: sidestep it by doing something extra-good or more than expected, or.......lie....and do what you want. I was good at both. Good at showing my ultra good, I-can-do-anything-for-you side, as well as the stubborn lying, ask-what-you-want-but-I'm-doing-my-own-thing side.

As a teen, I learned about beauty (and later, sex) and the power that had over boys/men. I felt very powerful in being able to get the guy I wanted if I pursued him enough - and then would break up with him before he had the opportunity to break my heart first. I lacked any conscience in my choices -- there were a few guys that were good friends with an ex-boyfriend or my brother, or a love interest of a good friend of my own. Sadly, if I had the interest, I went after it. And generally got what I wanted. Until I tired of him. I used to sing the song "And another one bites the dust...." with amusement in my head.

Writing that is hard to admit, because I certainly didn't feel so arrogant, smug or confident at the time. While I did feel that the world was my oyster and I was capable of anything, I needed that constant reassurance of my power.

As an adult, I learned to be all for everyone. Be the ultra good mom, wife, Christian, friend. If you didn't have a problem, I'd make sure to show you how I could be helpful to you. But I more often tried to find the needy people in my neck of the woods. "I neeeed someone to neeeeed me." Let me be your all.

And then I'd be pissed when you used me.

Competition...it was my measuring field. I felt that if I tried hard at anything, I can do/be anything I wanted. Not a bad message to embrace - but terrible if you have no sense of yourself, of what YOU really want. Whatever was defined as "successful" at my age level - I was there, I was going to be the best at it. Dependent on an exterior framework of accomplishment, my delusion of power was bound to crash. Further, that exterior framework was never very firm - needing that sense of power through attaining it at any cost..... paradoxically........ was only feeding a very insecure feeling of powerlessness within.

********
Still clueless to my motivation for using - nor really wanting or caring to stop and take a look at it, I hit two bottoms.

The first still brings tears to my eyes. In 2004, 6 months into my addiction, our family left on Christmas Day to Orlando for the holidays. We had two dogs and a cat at the time - and that was always the dilemma...who's going to take care of the menagerie. And who's going to do an exchange on *Christmas Day*. Who can you ask to leave their family gathering to take care of your burdens - treasured as they were - but burden, all the same. Well, of course. You can ask your sick friends. You can ask your supplier.

Not only did she happen to break our doorknob in getting into our house on Christmas Day, but she allowed our puppy to get run over by a car outside her house on New Year's Eve - just 12 hours before we arrived home.

I remember thinking acidically, at the time - "Well, 2 out of 3 ain't bad." We got a dog, a cat, and a wood box back for the New Year.

And I spent the next 2 weeks in bed, beside myself in pain. I knew without a doubt that this was a giant, neon message to me to quit doing what I was doing before something really terrible happened to a *human* person I loved. I never imagined it might be me - nor did I care; I'd be dead and that really didn't have much importance to me - but it could be one of my kids. So I scared the living bejeezus out of my family - the "rock", as my husband calls me, the one my kids saw as so "together" and in control - lay in bed for two weeks, cried and wished for my fuzzy little Kirby back.

We buried him in the backyard with his Christmas bone on an uncharacteristically warmish day that January while a soft rain fell from above. And I knew I was done. No more.

I was back within two weeks. The pain was too great. The guilt was too great. I just needed to feel JOY again. No matter if that joy had the strings of shame attached.

Seven months later, I crossed the last line. I traveled with it. On a plane. With my family.

I took a large chunk of the stuff and taped it securely to the inside top cover of one of my makeup jars. Put it in the checked baggage.

And I sweat with uncontrollable fear the entire trip. I thought for sure my bag would be sniffed out by some drug trained canine. As I sat on the plane, the pillow clouds shining bright beneath the afternoon sun, my kids chattering away excitedly beside me, I was drowning in the vision of what would happen in the baggage claim area when we landed. The police officials would be waiting until I claimed my baggage and then they'd come out of the woodwork. It'd be a great big scene - worst of all, in front of my kids. They'd question me, handcuff me, and carry me away. I could see the question, the confusion, the fear on my kids' faces. And the utter disgust in my husband's. There was no doubt in my mind that this would be waiting for me once we got to our destination. Why in the world did I do that, I cried to myself? If I'd just brought it on the plane *with* me, I could at least throw it out in the bathroom (after I had a bump). No other option, I sat and I sweat....and dreaded going to baggage claim. Walking there, my legs were like stone.

And nothing happened. No scene. No shame. No embarrassment.

I was all-powerful again.

It was not until I was into recovery that I could look back and see this was a bottom for me. I'd sacrifice all - the ability to be with my children and husband, my dignity, and literally my freedom - my real power - in order to have this drug with me on vacation.

I had no clue. Funny, I still remember worrying at the time if I was a drug addict.

Lines in the Sand

2010-01-05T20:26:00.020-06:00

Another night similar to the first, my other friends none the wiser. Then despite my line drawn in the sand, that I'd *never* do that kind of thing around home.....it made the trip back with us. It was not until I was home that I actually looked into what we were using. I'd honestly thought that "crystal" was just a more potent form of cocaine because it was in rock or "crystal" formation. I researched it on the internet and realized I'd been snuffing up meth amphetamine. I'd heard the news stories about meth labs - heck, they were all over the midwest it seemed at that time. I was horrified.

There was NO WAY I'd been doing that! But somehow, the drug helps you to justify it to yourself. It's not *that* big a deal. It *feels* a lot like coke, only better cuz it lasts sooo much longer. It can't be *that* bad. I was coherent the whole time, no one was able to tell.

So, the amount we bought - typical if we were buying coke - could never have been used on that one weekend. And that's how I began a year and a half of meth usage, each week stepping over the last line drawn in the sand.

Never during the day. Only if we went out.
Not while my kids were home.
Not every day.
Never on vacation.

The only line I didn't cross after I started using during the day was never after my husband was home. And I never smoked it.

The first, I'm not sure that was any great achievement. It would have been better to have been slipping off to the bathroom while my husband was home. At least someone would have been the "responsible" adult.

The second, I think I'm here today writing from such a good place because I never smoked it. I've heard too many stories of "no man's land" after people smoked it in a pipe. My "friend" tried to persuade me to try it but I just couldn't go there. I felt so terrible, so shameful about myself for what I was doing *already* - I couldn't add insult to injury and start using a pipe.

I remember at the beginning feeling that this drug was the best thing since man created the wheel. I was joyous, I was making lists and getting things done, I felt that I was an ultra-good mom; able to listen, have patience and still have energy to cook, clean up, help with homework, and I could remember infinite details. I'd ponder them late into the night, remembering exactly what someone said, their facial expression, how I felt in return. Details. Little details. And I was on top of it all.

AND getting thin! I didn't even think about it until I was 25 lbs lighter. It was after we started using during the day, and at that point for a short time....everyday. I'd hired my housekeeper to stain the sunroom, but because I didn't completely trust her ability, nor did I want to pay her fully, AND unconsciously, it gave me the opportunity to use more frequently, I stained it with her.

Again, what FUN. What awesome discussions. Great connections, she and I. We were like sisters separated at birth. We could have been the same person had I not made better choices and had a better supportive family. It must have taken close to two weeks....and that was it. My addiction was set.

I began to worry at that point. Heavens, what if I'm becoming an addict. More rules. More lines in the sand. Not everyday. Not ever to get going in the morning.

And for the most part, that worked for awhile.

Then I decided it'd be a good idea to start a painting company with her. I loved - loved - to strip wallpaper. Imagine being hyped up, loving the minutest of details....and stripping wallpaper. Wallpaper that split. And left small pieces behind. To me, for those of you that can stomach it, it was like peeling sunburnt skin. It literally made my mouth water. I'd get into the zen of peeling....and picking. So bad that I'd need heating pads for my neck at night! But it gave me reason to be around my supplier on a regular basis, and it gave me reason to obsess about peeling.

As gross as that probably is to read, I did have one redeeming quality there as well. I was a genius in doing faux wall painting. Some of the walls I did really were quite phenomenal. And of course, I had the energy and patience of Job to do it all day....and get it .....just.....right!

But that entered me into my daily usage. And each of us would fuel the others' usage. "Ready for a bump?" "Another somethin-somethin??"

I cringe at the thought of using these unsuspecting clients' bathrooms. They had no clue. I always maintained the social etiquette with all our clientele. I have always had a natural charm - I say that without an attempt at boasting - but I usually do quite well with first impressions. Clean - or when I was high. I just hate thinking that even though I was doing this beautiful work for them -- or the grunge work of getting rid of wallpaper that they'd hated for years -- I'd be slipping into the bathroom, crunching and lining up our next boot, then smiling and acting the role after. Horrid.

Shiver

2010-01-05T12:56:00.001-06:00

When I look back at that blog, I realize how far I've come. I really had no idea how unhappy I was, how much I lived my life for everyone else, how inadequate and unworthy I felt for the life I was living. And maybe most importantly, though I attended church on regular basis and was active within that framework, how little my belief system supported or guided me on a daily basis.

I mean, it wasn't supposed to be a big deal. My housekeeper, Mary, who later became my "friend" (AKA supplier) and I were joining a group of girls on a weekend trip to Chicago for my 40th birthday. I'd used cocaine in college; it never became out of control. Though, I do realize now that I was a student - translated...I had little cash. Which was a blessing. 20 yrs later, and married to a doc, I had more freedom to spend where I wanted (though I rarely spent much on myself). So, why not? A girl's weekend away from home. I deserved a little 'wicked' time. I mean, I'd never do that kind of thing here around the family.

On the day we were supposed to drive up, we waited all day for the connection. Hours and hours. We should have been there by dinner, the latest. And we'd still not started off. After I'd anticipated the idea of doing this for the first time in years, I wasn't going to leave without it. Mary kept suggesting that she could get crystal, but I told her I wasn't into smoking anything. Apparently, she said, cocaine wasn't as easy to find in the midwest....but crystal was everywhere. "It's the same thing." We could get that and be on our way.

After being reassured that we could sniff it just like coke, we were on our way -- and given a "freebee" to make sure we liked what we were getting.

Wow.
Immediate.
Un.fucking.believable.
Every tree had individual leaves of the most amazing color. And life was....beautiful. I was in love with it. Everyone in it. And I was....perfect. Pure joy.

Paid up and on our way.

And what an amazing trip it was, stopping now and again for a bump. The best drive. Ever. The most stimulating conversations. Full of laughter and tears and revelations. I was almost disappointed to arrive in Chicago several hours later - even though it was practically midnight. A full 6 hours later than we'd anticipated arriving.

We stayed up talking to the friends we were meeting in their room - until they grew tired and begged off to go to sleep.

Mary and I looked at each other in disbelief - there's no way we were going to waste that good buzz by going to sleep. We talked in our own room til late in the night. Tried sleeping...but forget it.

The best revelation in the morning was that food tasted like cardboard and looked completely unappetizing. What a great way to lose that last 10-15 lbs. if it made food look and taste terrible!

But ugh, we both felt like we'd been run over by a Mac truck. Impossible to "act normal", be sociable, and then do a repeat social engagement that night. We tried for several hours that afternoon to catch at least an hour or two of sleep. I remember lying there, right at the brink of dropping off - I could feel it within reach. See it.

But no. No sleep available for either of us. Solution?
Another bump.
BINGO.
Ready for another fun night!

The Beginning

2010-01-04T23:55:00.002-06:00

I remember looking into the mirror as my head dipped, the rolled dollar bill to my nostril, thinking.......What the hell are you doing?! You're 40, you have 2 kids in elementary school, you go to church every Sunday, you're a freakin' *doctor's* WIFE! What would the PTO have to say? Your son just won the DARE contest. How can you live two such opposing lives?

And yet my head continued to dip and meet its mark - a fine line of white powder on the sink's edge. Following the trail from one side to the other and tipping my head back, I sniffed in deeply, feeling that telltale bitter dryness at the back of my throat. Almost instantly, I could feel the relief of a subtle clarity of rightness with the world, and said to myself. Yes. This was why. Knock back the guilt. No one will know.

And I can be all ....and anything.....to everyone.