Underbelly

I have a scar on my belly.

It is from the feeding tube I had, at the worst of the cancer treatments, when my throat was so ravaged by radiation even swallowing water was painful.

It's a small, round hole, about four inches above my belly button. It looks like a bullet wound.

Three years ago this hole was punched into my stomach.  It was made to sustain me, to give me life-giving nutrients. Without it the treatment would have been too much for my body to bear.  I hated it then, and I have avoided looking at it ever since.

It's on my soft white underbelly, and it makes me feel exposed, fragile and barely tethered to the world.

So, I ignored it. I filed it away in the mental morass where all the messages my body sends me go, into a dusty, overlooked and overstuffed file cabinet full of uncomfortable truths and feelings.

I prefer to live from the neck up.  I squeeze all experiences through the filter of thought. Emotions - especially the uncomfortable ones - are carefully strained, compared, analyzed and then meticulously explained.

I like my mind. I'm comfortable there. It makes me feel in control.

There are sound reasons to ignore my body. It makes me uncomfortable, what with all its imperfections, cumbersome functions and tendency to betray my carefully constructed illusion of control.

It screams at me to pay attention, particularly my gut. That's where I carry all the really uncomfortable shit: fear, conflict, anxiety, grief and sadness.  My insides curl into a tight, painful ball whenever I experience anything unwanted or uncomfortable, and my brain swoops in and madly begins explaining away.

Turning my focus from the ticker-tape of my mind to my body makes me squirm.

Another uncomfortable truth: the things that make me squirm are the most deserving of attention. My poor, overlooked, ignored body has carried my hardest truths, and it is the gatekeeper to my most vulnerable, authentic self.

And so, with as much compassion as I can muster, I practice turning my attention to the sacred messages it contains.

We are hardwired to protect our soft white underbelly. Exposing it triggers an ancient danger message, which in turn triggers the freeze, fight or flight response.

We aren't running from saber-toothed tigers or woolly mammoths anymore, but our brain doesn't know that, nor does it particularly care.  It responds to any perceived threat like it always has: avoid at all costs.

Addiction, and all forms of escape, are coded into that avoidance message.  There are so many ways to avoid: workaholism, perfectionism, the internet and the numbing effects of alcohol or drugs are but a few of the most beloved ways to hide.

In recovery I can't afford to ignore the woolly mammoths that come lumbering out of the morass. And so, I turn towards instead of away.

In the past, I have turned towards pain with my mind, but not with my body. Facing pain feels a lot safer as a mental exercise.  When I feel the vibrations of hoof beats thundering down the path, the last thing I want to do is unfurl, lie down and feel them come.  I would much, much rather just think about it.

My cancer lived in my body, and the deep fear this experience instilled in me lives there, too. I have written and talked about my cancer experience, but I haven't felt it.  My relapse taught me that what I avoid will, eventually, bring me down.

And so, I place my hand over the scar on my belly. I feel the softness, the vulnerability it contains. I listen to its message.

I feel the truths wash over me: you are deeply, primordially scared, Ellie. You are traumatized by your cancer experience; it plunked your mortality right into your lap, and this made returning to the land of the quotidian very, very hard.  You relapsed over it. You turned and you ran, as hard and as fast as you could.  

And then, this:   You are flawed and imperfect and wondrously alive. This tissue thin skin reminds you of the tenuousness of life, which is a truth whether you had cancer or not. 

I feel a loosening deep inside, a forgiveness, a compassion. I honor what the scar represents, which is another chance, a second umbilical cord that tethers me back to life, instead of away from it.

With one hand over my scar, and one hand on my heart, I feel my strong, steady heartbeat and I let the fear come.  I slip out of the world of the mind, and into my body. Cancer made me feel my body had betrayed me, when in fact the opposite is true. My mind is the only organ capable of betrayal.

That scar? It's not a wound. It's a doorway.

The Hallway

You know that expression, the one that says "God doesn't close one door without opening another one"?

I've never particularly liked it - it felt too much like a Band-Aid over a bullet hole, like plastering a bumper sticker over an openly bleeding wound.

Of course it's true, like most over-used sayings.

The part that isn't mentioned, though, is the hallway.  The one I find myself standing in right now,
one door firmly shut behind me, but the new door remains out of sight, at the other end of a shadowy journey I can't define.

I spend a lot of time by myself. I can't drive, and so I leave the house only with help, and only when necessary.  It's amazing how much of my identity was wrapped around the woman-who-did-stuff.  I used to go non-stop, all day - rushing to and from appointments and errands and business engagements and housework, and making dinner, and activities ...and, and, and.

What I have learned is the vast majority of all that rushing around was unnecessary.  Life just felt more comfortable when I didn't stop moving.  I would never simply sit and think, or pray, or breathe.  When I did these things the feelings would start to come -the fear, anxiety and uncertainty I felt at the core of my being - and so I'd go someplace.  Like Target. Or Michael's. Or Stop & Shop.  I would lose myself in the mundane hum of normalcy, mindlessly pushing my cart up and down aisles, making hundreds of tiny decisions so I could avoid thinking about the bigger ones.

What happened, when I stopped - well, let's get real .... when I was forced to stop - was all the feelings came to the surface.  I could no longer dodge the reality of my fear.  I don't numb it from the inside-out with alcohol, and I don't numb it from the outside-in with labels I affix to myself to validate who I am.

I am slowly peeling away all those labels, and its scary.  I pick away at their sticky edges - Wife, Mother, Writer, Daughter, Blogger, Alcoholic, Cancer Survivor, Sister, Friend.

Every major way I defined myself has changed.  I no longer lose myself by slipping into the characters I assembled to feel better about myself through your eyes. 

Now, when I push the cart up and down the aisles, I don't feel like I fit anywhere, and it's uncomfortable.  The Moms I talk to jostle about, clutching their car keys and dashing off to the activities I can no longer take my kids to.  They talk about the husband I no longer have.  The family dinner I am no longer preparing.  Planning the family vacation I no longer go on. 

All of the major relationships I have in my life are changing, evolving. I have taken a giant step back from everything that used to define me, before.  My work. My family. My marriage. My social life. My writing.

I long, sometimes, for the way my life used to be, before the weight of all those self-affixed labels crushed me.  When my biggest problem of the day was how to fit it all in - get one kid to soccer and the other to CCD and get to the grocery shop and start dinner.  When my brain was so crammed with my To-Do list - my businesses, my family, my husband and friends - that I didn't have to think about myself.

I know I can't go back there.  I know this hard stop is in my life for a purpose.  I squirm in the silence, in the calm.  I'm great in a foxhole.  It's the lulls that scare me.

I suffer when I resist the reality of what is, as opposed to what was or what might be.  I am in the most pain when I scream and kick against all those closed doors, those maladaptive coping mechanisms - my people pleasing, my co-dependency, my self-medicating with alcohol or work.

I can't even hide from myself in my marriage anymore.  I am not Mrs. Anybody.  I am just me.  

When I can let go, when I can just stand still in this dark hallway and just be, I feel fleeting moments of peace. 

I am mourning the loss of the blueprint, though.  The one I so carefully drafted for how my life was supposed to look, like a perfect holiday card.  The one that made me feel as though I was in control of my destiny, although of course I never was.

I don't have any blueprint anymore.  Every pre-conceived notion I had - every label - is torn and tattered.

Now I stand alone, peeling back the labels, feeling naked and vulnerable without their papery armor.  I stand shivering in the Damn Hallway, waiting for God to crack open the next door.   So far, He hasn't.  He is making me wait. 

He is making me put up boundaries, ask for help, sit with myself awhile.

And so, I do.


 

On Simplicity, Serenity and Struggle

I find myself in a tug-of-war.  I love writing in this space, and I miss it.

Following the chaos of my relapse(s) and subsequent 90 days of treatment, I vowed to take a break from living my life so publicly.  I have been doing serious thinking about the role blogging plays in my life, in my recovery.  I have more questions than answers.

I still receive numerous emails from people who identify with my story, have been helped in some way by my words. People offer bits of their own struggles, their own triumphs, and it comforts me, makes me feel less alone. 

I don't have regrets, because despite everything I continue to believe that being open brings more gifts to me than being closed. When I share some of my vulnerabilities with the world, the blessings I receive back are beyond measure.  I am long past worrying about judgment, censure or sideways glances on the soccer field.

This blog has been, in large part, about my addiction and recovery story. But I also wrote about motherhood, creativity, advocacy, balance and family.

The past six months have shown me that I do not need to share all the intimate details of my journey. Some things are meant for the sacred intimacy of real-life: family, close friends and recovery people.  

I have focused on living a quiet, simple life. I stepped away from the day-to-day of running Shining Strong, I took a hiatus from my jewelry businesses and from blogging.

My main focus has been on self-care and my family.  My kids are my priority - after my recovery, of course, because without my recovery I will lose everything.

I find myself in an in-between space. There are lots of changes happening in my life, and I ache to write about them.  But it's not just my story to tell.  What I say here impacts my kids, my husband, my family.  

Because I have shared my struggles here, I am stopped often - even from people I barely know - who look me in the eye and ask me, in a heartfelt manner - how are you?  

I don't know what to say anymore.  I am someone who shares; I find comfort in connecting with people.  I want to be truthful, but I find myself uncharacteristically speechless.  

I struggle with the balance between what is private and answering authentically. It feels shallow simply saying, "I'm fine!  And you?"

So what to do about here?  In the land of One Crafty Mother?  I realize, looking back, that I have never been untruthful or misleading here.  I have written as authentically as I could.  But there is a kind of safety in crafting words to describe my life to the unseen masses.  It's the parts I didn't even have access to myself - the pain, the depression, the grief and anxiety - that got me in the end. Writing is powerful, but it can allow me to skip rocks over the really hard stuff, even as I believe I am digging deep.

So here is what I can say:  I am okay. I have an incredible relationship with my kids, and for this I am beyond grateful.  My recovery is solid. I am able to live in acceptance and surrender and keep it in the day, with lots of prayer, meditation and support.  

Recently I re-opened my online jewelry shops, but I haven't been marketing them aggressively. Like sinking into a hot bath, I am slowing reintegrating into creating again.  It feels good.  I am writing a lot on the side, away from the public eye. It is healing.

I am smack dab in the middle of a fantastic recovery community; I reach out for help.  I stay active, present and involved.  I lean into my feelings, and share them face-to-face with the unbelievable support network I have right here in front of me.

I am also not okay. My husband and I are separating. I won't get into the details, because it isn't my story to tell.  It's our story. It will always be our story, no matter what happens in the end.  We are working together with love and respect for each other, and that's a lot.  That isn't to say it's not hard - man, is it hard, but I find that anger, resentment and fear block my contact with God.  It's simpler to live in compassion and faith. Well, maybe not simpler, but certainly more serene.

I know that God's got us, that we need to row the boat but that He is steering. I know I will learn and stretch and grow. 

Our little family has been through a lot in the past three years, and a lot of it revolves around my issues: the death of my Dad, my cancer, my depression/anxiety, my relapse, my absence during my treatment.  And now our separation.  

I find myself waiting for things to settle down, for life to return to normal again.  I find myself grappling for a foothold, wanting to shake answers out of the Universe because I want to know, dammit, what is going to happen.  

When I do this, when I live in the land of expectation, I suffer.  When I pry my white knuckles off the steering wheel, surrender and ask for help, I am calm and steady.  I know now that this is the only power I have over anything: how I metabolize my world.   

I have the power to let go.  

Pirouette On A Tightrope: On Addiction and Depression

I am emerging from my self-imposed break from writing because I feel an ache, a bubbling emotion that needs to come out in words.

Robin Williams' death hit us all hard. Just like in the wake of Phillip Seymour Hoffman's death, I feel
perplexed, gut-punched, incredulous.

Their deaths touch us because their talents were so massive, their performances so vulnerable, that we felt a kinship, a connection, with them.  The thing about that connection?  It only went one way.  The unrequited first row seat to their creative genius was the gift they gave us.  And, we know now, the pain driving those staggering performances - both comic and tragic - that hid behind all those characters.

At first glance Robin Williams appeared to be the opposite of vulnerable - full of crackling energy that surrounded him like a force field.  To be honest, his brand of humor always made me slightly nervous.  When I watched him interviewed, or hosting an award show, I felt as though I were watching through squinted eyes, waiting for the wheels to come off and the whole thing to fall apart.

This may sound like Monday morning quarterbacking - all "I saw it coming".   I didn't.  But I know now why his energy made me uncomfortable.  I recognized that pirouette on a tightrope, the thin veil between comedy and melancholy.  

How many of us thought, when we heard of his suicide, "WHY?  He had so much to live for?"

As someone who battles both depression and addiction, I understand that how much a person has to live for doesn't matter in the face of these potentially fatal illnesses.   Most of the people I know who have struggled with addiction also struggle with depression and/or anxiety.   Drinking or using drugs becomes the Band-Aid over the bullet hole.

I ended up relapsing after years of sobriety because of untreated depression and anxiety.  I learned a valuable lesson while in treatment:  I can build a strong castle of recovery - massive and impenetrable from the outside - but if it is built on a foundation of sand, it will eventually fall.  The issues behind my drinking - depression and anxiety - were the shifting sands underneath my recovery.  Unaddressed, they would eventually take me down. And they did.

I had no idea I was depressed. I thought depression meant you couldn't get out of bed, that your world went grey and meaningless, that you were filled with lethargy and despair.

Mine didn't manifest that way.  My depression came out as manic energy - impulsive, compulsive, obsessive.  I didn't stop from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning until the moment I fell into a fitful sleep.  My mind never, ever stopped.  To the outside world I looked on top of my game - productive, full of life, passion and drive.  Recovery is an inside job, and I stopped working on my insides. I took my validation from the outside in, and for someone like me that is dangerous ground.

If I started to feel those shifting sands under my feet I ran harder, faster. I started another venture or project. Without consciously knowing it, I was afraid to stop, like a beast was nipping at my heels and if I paused it would get me.

It got me. My addiction is my beast - it was waiting for me to run out of energy, skulking in the shadows and ready to pounce. 

When I see the recaps of Robin Williams' performances - especially the improvisational ones, or the interviews - I recognize that mad dance. He was larger than life - he was so, well, Robin Williams. How hard it must have been for him to let down that veneer, to ask for help.  His humor was his armor, and we loved him for it.  We craved that version of him, we validated it.  And he delivered, at his own peril.

Recently he checked himself into rehab, and according to his publicist it was a precautionary move, to help prevent relapse. As details emerge, it appears his depression had such a grip on him that this came too late.

Depression is such an elusive concept. Most of us, when we hear this word, think:  sad.

For those of us who struggle with depression we know sad is a woefully inadequate word.   Just like I can't really describe what addiction feels like, I don't know if I can find words to describe depression.

To me, it felt like a mad scramble. A desperation to keep moving while appearing focused and outwardly fine.  Like that analogy of the duck - calm on the surface and paddling madly beneath the water.

Like addiction, for me denial played a huge role.  It wasn't an active denial - nobody was saying, "Ellie, I think you're depressed" while I protested.   I didn't know what I didn't know.  And because I am an alcoholic, that disease got me before the depression did.  But, in time, I realize that untreated depression is just as deadly and insidious.

Today I view my recovery as a three-legged stool: a program of recovery, therapy and medication.   I have historically had two of the three legs:  program and medication, therapy and program, recovery and medication.  I teetered on two legs as long as I could, but of course I fell.  Medication is tricky in recovery, and it took a while to find a safe and effective dosage. 

Now, with all three in place, I feel grounded.  My outside life is somewhat chaotic, complicated, as I work on the wreckage of my active addiction.  But I will take outside chaos with inner peace over inside chaos and outer peace any day.

I am staggeringly lucky.  I was able to get treatment for 90 days, with a lot of help from my family and friends.  I know without that treatment my chances of making it were slim.  I also know that I wasn't able to ask for help because I was so deep into my depression and addiction that I was incapable of saving myself.  It was people around me who got me the help I needed.

Many people aren't that fortunate.  Many people struggle and don't even know that they are depressed. Many people turn to alcohol or drugs to ease the pain, and many of them become addicted as a result.

We are a society of quick fixes. We applaud drive, determination and outward appearances.  Vulnerability and fear sit in the back seat, shushed and scorned.

I don't know how to end this post, what kind of statement I'm making here, exactly.  I can only share my own experience and hope it touches others.  If you are struggling on the inside, ask for help. Find just ONE person to open up to.  Even if all you can say is "I don't feel okay", start there. 

And if someone asks you for help, please listen.  Resist the urge to tell them how great their life is, how much they have going for them.  Offer up pieces of your own struggles to help them feel not so alone. 

Shards

I wriggle in the over-stuffed chair, shifting my knees from side-to-side, searching for something to say to fill the silence.

My therapist gazes patiently at me. Long pauses don't bother her one bit.

"The thing is....", I begin.

She waits.

"The thing about blowing up your life is that you get to sift through the ashes, searching for the remains - the shards - that really mean something to you."

I speak in the second person, because it's too hard too say "me" or "I".  I pretend I'm speaking about some other person, a stranger I'm observing, perhaps.

"Interesting analogy", she says after a beat. "But it sound rehearsed, like you've said it before."

As usual, she's right. That little analogy is what I say to people who ask me how I'm doing.  I'm scrambling for the blessings in this mess, and that visual seems to relieve people of their worry.  They comment on how I'm being brave, how it's important to find the gifts in hardship.

With a sheepish grin, I nod.   "Yup."

"Tell me about the shards, then," she says.  "Which ones are most important to you?"

I brighten.  This is an easy one.  "My kids. My husband. My family. My friends."

"What isn't a shard that surprises you?"  she asks.

I think for a moment.  "My businesses. I mean, I still care deeply about Shining Strong, but it's in very capable hands. I want to keep making jewelry, but I feel so overwhelmed these days that I sit at my desk and just stare into space.  I'm done with all the crazy running around, and it's a relief."

She waits, poker faced, as I stare at my hands.  I sense I've answered wrong, and say so.

"Why do you think there is a right or wrong answer to my questions?" she asks in that infuriating rhetorical way that therapists have.

I look at her, helplessly, and shift my legs again.  I take a sip of tea.  "Well, because, you're clearly after something, and I don't know what it is."

"Ellie, we're talking about YOU.  Not me.  You do realize that, don't you?"

I stifle a surge of rage.  Of course I know we're talking about me. But, see, I don't know me very well anymore. I thought I did. I had it all worked out: mother, entrepreneur, recovery advocate, wife, daughter, friend.

She sighs. "I'm just wondering how come you aren't a shard, too", she says, quietly.

My eyes widen. "I didn't realize that was a option?" I stammer, as though her question were a multiple choice test.

"Exactly," she says.

As I drive home I realize the shard analogy is more than just a thing that I say to people. I feel shattered, stripped bare, raw. Things have happened. Things I won't talk about here.  Not yet.  I am keeping my life small, safe and very quiet.

I am trying to figure out how to just be.  Just be Ellie, whoever she is when the world isn't watching, when there are no demands for my time, when it's just me in my cozy home with my family.

I feel broken into a thousand shards myself, having fought as hard as I could against the pressures of the past few years, against my old nemeses depression and anxiety and addiction.

Words, for the first time I can remember, don't come easily.  All I know is that I give up.  And not in the scary way; in the healing way.  I feel like I have been trapped underwater, my foot tangled in weeds, with my lips mere inches from the surface.  I have struggled, kicked and thrashed as hard as I could thinking sweet freedom was just within my reach.

I didn't know that freedom would be mine if I would just stop kicking, let my body go limp and sink, loosening the hold these demons had on me.

I am a fighter. I've had to be.  For all the writing I have done about surrender, I missed something important: the bravest warriors know when to surrender.  Rushing headlong into a battle you can't win with brute force isn't courage, it's folly.

And so I sit. I sit in overstuffed chairs and wriggle. I sit in recovery meetings and listen. And cry. And talk.  I sit with the stillness of my life and the roaring silence in my mind.

And bit by bit, I pick up each shard, examine it, and ask myself where it fits with my life,  With me.

With whoever I am becoming.

The Other Side of Fear

I want to say a heartfelt thank you to all the support, love and encouragement I have received since my last post about my relapse.

I'm pleased to report that the saying "feelings aren't facts" is totally true.  My fear of being judged or alienated proved to be ill founded.  If there are people judging me out there they are remaining blissfully silent. 

I am overwhelmed (in the good way) by all the comments, messages and emails. 

When we are suffering, it is easy to feel like we're the only people on the planet. It seems like the bad feelings are never going to get better.  No matter how many times I have said to other struggling people "hang in there, it gets better", it is still very difficult to believe that when it's me who is in pain.

When I wrote about my alcoholism before - from the start of this blog - it was from the relatively safe perch of time and distance.  It wasn't as hard to write about the stigma, shame, regret and guilt of alcoholism with over a year sober tucked under my belt.  For someone who writes extensively about the power of truth and vulnerability, when it came time to share my own without the buffer of time I felt more frightened than I have in a long time. 

I had to wait to hit "publish" on my last post until I felt in my gut I was putting my words out there for my own healing, not because I wanted to dispel rumors or try to project some image of okay-ness that wasn't true.  I had to be sure I wasn't writing for anyone but myself and was able to let go of the outcome.  

I forgot about the power of truth and vulnerability.  Not everyone understands addiction or recovery, but everyone understands suffering and courage.

Because it takes courage to be vulnerable.  When someone speaks or writes their truth - unvarnished and straight from the heart - I feel awe and admiration, and no small measure of respect.  When it's my turn, however, the urge to varnish. minimize or maximize the truth is overwhelming.  

And why do I want to polish up the truth?  Why do I feel this urge to minimize my accomplishments?  

Fear.

Fear of being judged, of course, but also fear of the "who do you think you are's".  

I have learned that fear is at the root of so many deflecting emotions like anger or resentment. Fear is also at the root of pride, envy, perfectionism and shame.  At the heart of it all, for me, is self-centered fear of rejection and abandonment.  

Social media can amplify and exaggerate this fear.  People don't post about their vulnerabilities often.  We aren't practiced in expressing our fears.  When perusing Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, etc. we can find ourselves comparing our insides to everyone else's highlight reels.  

What I felt from the responses I received from my last post was relief and identification.  Even people who aren't alcoholics, who aren't in recovery, wrote to me about their own struggles, fears and experiences with falling down and getting back up.

Many, many people expressed that they wish they could be more open about their fears, doubts and insecurities but that they couldn't because of fear of peoples' reactions, of not fitting in and being perceived as weak or inferior.  

There is a chasm between how we feel on the inside and what the world sees, and at the bottom of this chasm is a river of suffering.

Every time we open up and share our truth, our vulnerability, we are building a bridge across this chasm.  In recovery we do this all the time; we open our mouths to save our lives so the chasm doesn't swallow us whole.

I will never be rid of fear, but I am learning to embrace it as a great teacher.  The antidotes to fear are self-love, faith and truth.  When I can face my mistakes, regrets and truths with compassion and love, I can find the strength to build that bridge. The only way fear wins is if I stop trying; if I avoid what is really going on inside and keep polishing up the outside instead.  The shiniest castle built on sand will eventually fall.

My relapse happened, in large part, because I didn't want to face some hard truths about what was going on underneath it all; how my foundation was crumbling as I madly kept on building. 

I can't get well on my own; when I try to fix myself I inevitably make things worse.  Thank you - everyone - for your words of hope and encouragement, but mostly importantly for sharing the vulnerable, beautiful parts of yourselves. When we raise our voices together, fear doesn't stand a chance. 

If you're struggling and have been afraid to reach out for help because of fear, take a deep breath, and speak your truth to a trusted friend or loved one. Or even start by speaking your truth out loud in front of a mirror. Tell yourself what you're afraid of.  Truth shines a light on the things that make us suffer and sends fear scuttling into the shadows.

Let go.  It's worth it.  You're worth it.

And so am I.

Still Behind The Veil

Two years ago I found the lump in my neck.

As with all life changing events, it seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago.

I still struggle. I still struggle with anxiety and depression about my cancer. Sometimes in the most ordinary moments I'm hit with the gut punch of oh my God, I had cancer.  

Anniversaries like these send me into mini tailspins. I start feeling twinges and aches, obsessively feeling my throat: is that spot harder than it was before?

Very rarely am I at a loss for what to write, but these days I am.  I am not sleeping well - a lovely combination of anxiety and the over-the-top menopausal symptoms that chemo and radiation caused.   I am seeing doctors.  I am taking safe and monitored medication.  I am putting one foot in front of the other, and some days it's all I can do.

There are still many, many more good days than bad. But like it or not, anxiety has her hands wrapped around my throat again, making my world go a little grey.

So instead of writing, I will share what I read at BlogHer's Voice of the Year.  Because I have to look back, but not stare. I have to remember the hope that is all around, even when the days are feeling hard.  And I have to remember that no matter what, I'm here today and I have so, so many things to be grateful for:

Introverted Extrovert

Whenever I make a new friend, somewhere innocuous like the soccer sidelines, or a new neighbor, (as opposed to through a recovery, business or internet connection where someone already knows me, or knows of me) there is inevitably that moment.   The one where they say, "and what do you do"?

One of my first-ever blog posts ranted about the awkwardness of this seemingly innocent interrogative.  Back in my single working days this question never gave me pause.  "I'm a Blahbity Blah" I'd rattle off without thinking, my identify safely wrapped up in my Job Title Du Jour.

Becoming a full time Mom added a layer of puzzlement on how to answer this.  I hated how often I felt the question mark at the end of my reply, when I'd mumble out "I'm a Mom?"  Sometimes I'd even say, "I'm just a Mom", as if the merits of raising a child were lacking in some key way.

After I started my jewelry business, the question mark still loomed:  I make jewelry? 

When a person expressed an interest in learning more about this, I struggled.  I didn't own my creativity, refusing to believe I was an artist of any kind.  "Oh, it's no big deal," I'd say.  "It's just a little Etsy shop.  Something to keep me from getting too bored."

Blogging added another layer of complexity, especially five years ago when more than half the people would say, "You're a what?? What's a blogger?"

Again the question mark reared its ugly head. "Um, I write about my life on the internet?"

This was almost always met with a puzzled expression and a "Why?"

Back then I didn't know why.  It was just something I couldn't not do, but that answer seemed ridiculous.  And blogging carried for me more than a whiff of narcissism, of navel gazing.  I couldn't understand why I blogged any more than I could understand why on earth anyone would read it.

The awkwardness factor ratcheted up a notch when, left unsatisfied from my self-deprecating mumbling response to why I blog, the person would inquire, understandably, "well, what do you blog about?"

"Well, er, I'm an alcoholic in recovery, and I write about that," I'd sputter, bracing for the person's head to jerk back, for them to stare into the middle distance and concoct an excuse to walk away.

Most people had this response, because the of the uncomfortable vibe radiating from my pores; if I felt embarrassed about it, they felt embarrassed for me.

Little by little, my jewelry business and blog grew, but my self-deprecating manner did not keep pace with the public response.  I'd frame my answer to the what-do-you-do question with "Well, I'm a Mom and kind of a writer. Oh, and I make jewelry."

I wouldn't hand over the business cards I carried in my purse, feeling that was to pushy. If they asked for a card, I'd give them one with a tentative smile.  "You totally don't need to buy anything," I would say, as if that person possessed no free will.

I cringe just thinking about it.

Then I founded my non-profit, Shining Strong, encompassing all my internet outreach projects that were growing by the day:  The Bubble Hour podcast, Crying Out Now, and my advocacy work with other organizations working in recovery advocacy.  And I started my Arbonne business.

Still - STILL - I stumbled over how to answer the what-do-you-do question.  It all came tumbling out in one vomitous reply: I-run-a-non-profit-and-make-jewelry-and-blog-and-am-an-Arbonne-consultant?  And a Mom of two kids?

The middle-distance stare. The shuffling feet. The poor person wouldn't have the first clue how to respond to my rapid fire and apologetic answer that landed at their feet like a stone.

About a year ago, I wrote about this phenomenon in my post Killing The Question Mark. I was preparing to meet Brene Brown, of Daring Greatly fame, and I was trying to own my successes without apology. I sound all put together-n-shit in that post, but the only reason I gave a copy of my book to Brene Brown was that my Mom brought one. I left mine at home, feeling too sheepish about self-promotion.  To Brene Brown, for crying out loud, the QUEEN of overcoming shame and embracing vulnerability.  The question mark came lurching back like a zombie from a bad B movie.

Now Shining Strong is really growing.  I incorporated as a non-profit. I have a fantastic board of directors, and a gorgeous and informative website, thanks to the talents of my friend Amanda.

Suddenly I find myself standing in front of rooms of people, or being interviewed online, or advocating for The Anonymous People,  a movement all about owning your recovery and speaking unabashedly about your recovery to help others.

The critics are loud in my head, but only I can give them power over me.  Only I can allow them to fuel my Question Mark Syndrome.  They are a minority. Most people are a combination of curious and supportive about Shining Strong's mission.  The question mark is weighing me down, and starting to smack of false modesty.


I have always been an introverted extrovert.  Talking to me you would likely never know that I am cringing inside a lot of the time: do I sound like an egomaniac? Am I making sense? Are you bored? Did you just look at your watch? Do you like me? 

I don't know that the introverted extrovert will ever go away. I am learning to love her, to embrace her and tell her: "It's going to be okay. You're not an egomaniac, and the mission is worthwhile".   Now and again someone in person, or through the grapevine, or on the internet, will criticize my efforts to raise money for Shining Strong. Or even my jewelry business, implying that I'm hawking my recovery to make money.

That hurts, and the question mark gains power.

But in my heart, I know that's not true. I named my non-profit in memory of my Dad (my maiden name is Strong) who gave back to the communities he served his whole life.  My Dad doesn't want me to cringe. My Mom is my biggest cheerleader, carrying the flag for me at every opportunity.  My best friend is now in recovery with me and is as essential to me as oxygen.

It's time to kill the question mark for good.

I will advocate now and again on this blog. I will talk about the mission I believe so strongly in.  I will even, on occasion, ask for financial help if you can spare it. I will often ask for help spreading the word.

And, just recently, when I met my brand-new neighbor at the end of our driveway as we waited for the bus with our kids, and she asked me, "what do you do?"

I smiled and said "I'm a Recovery Advocate and an Entrepreneur, when I'm not Mom-ing, which is most of the time".

She smiled back, and said, "Tell me, what is Recovery Advocacy?"

And so I did.

I even gave her my business card.

Middle School Heart

She stands nervously in front of the mirror, my newly minted middle schooler, and fiddles with her
hair.

Today is Spirit Day at school - the kids are encouraged to wear the school colors - blue and yellow - in a show of school solidarity.

My girl has taken it one step further, and applied temporary hair color, adorning her dark brown locks with streaks of yellow and blue.

"Is it too much?" she asks.

"No, it looks great!" I reply, trying to strike that balance between supportive and overly-chirpy.

"It's not enough, is it?"

This goes on all morning.  She pops into the bathroom repeatedly to double check the too-much-not-enough-ness.

She is stepping outside her comfort zone.  These little sprays of hair color are so much more than that. This is a girl who doesn't like any form of attention, preferring to blend as much as possible into the sidelines.

As she waits for the bus in the driveway, I sit in my designated spot on the porch, hidden by a bush.  She wants me there, but doesn't want anyone on the bus to see that she wants me there.

Change.

As the bus rumbles just up the road, she spins around one last time, "Are you sure it looks okay?" she yells, her eyes wide.

I yell, "It looks great!"

"SHHHHHHH!" she replies.

It's a tug of war, change.  That fine line between uncomfortable and familiar feels like a tightrope. One misstep and you fall, and then everybody sees.

I think most of us are hard-wired to think people are looking at us, don't you?  When we're slipping our toe just a click over the comfort line, it feels like we're wearing a flashing light on our head.

In reality, nobody is really looking. They are too busy wondering if their own light is flashing.

The other night we spent an hour discussing the plan for changing before gym. This is new, and mandatory.  Everyone must change into gym clothes before class, and back into school clothes after.

She squirms with discomfort. "Will there be changing rooms?  What if they're all full? What if I can't get changed in time?"

I can only nod with understanding, remembering vividly the anxiety of the locker room change.  I tell her that I would sometimes duck into a bathroom stall or shower to avoid detection.

She asks me if it gets any easier, and I think for a moment.

"Not really," I reply.  "Even grown-ups worry about standing out."

She smiles.  "So it's not just me?"

That's the crux of it, isn't it?  We all want reassurance that it's not just us. 

Last night at her middle school orientation the parents all crammed into the smallish desks, fidgeting.  We glanced nervously at the white board for our list of instructions, not wanting to get it wrong. There are forms to read, a letter to write to our kid.  As we scribbled away, the teacher roamed around the room, talking about his teaching style, while he bounced an over-sized ball. He went to toss the ball to the woman sitting across from me, and she cringed and shied away.

"See?" said the teacher.  "Nobody wants to stand out. Your kids feel the same way.  I'm here to help them step out of their comfort zones a little."

We giggled nervously, and then the loudspeaker pinged with an announcement, and everyone paused to listen.  "Will the driver of a Blue Jeep Commander, license plate blabbity-blah, please report to the office?"

"Oh," said the woman next to me, "how embarrassing for that person".

That person was me. I had parked on the side of the road like many others, but for some reason my car was being singled out.

I didn't want to put up my hand. I wanted to shrink below the desk and turn invisible.

"That would be me," I joked, and everyone swung their head to look at me.

As I gathered my things and slunked out of the classroom, I thought about how some things never change.  How that tug-of-war between "look at me" and "go away" never really goes away.

I scurried out of the school, ran down the school driveway and up the road, and saw a police car with flashing lights and an irate woman standing right next to my car.

She didn't like that I parked in front of her house, and called the cops, threatening to tow my car.

I apologized as reasonably as I could muster, swallowing the not-so-graceful response that was at the tip of my tongue.  I couldn't face walking back into that classroom, so I sheepishly drove home instead.

I struggle with it, too, that tug of war. I want to wave the flag and support the things I feel strongly about. I want to crow about recovery from the rooftops, how amazing it is, how the discomfort is totally worth it.

But when all the heads swing in my direction, I shrink up, try to make myself smaller.  Ninety-nine people cheer me on, but I focus on the one dissenter.  I give more credence to their criticism than I do to everyone else's praise.

It's human nature. Go-away-come-here-look-at-me-stop-staring.

Watching my daughter wrestle with her bravery this morning, I felt my middle-school heart beating in my chest.  I may have grown up, but my heart is still looking for the bathroom stall to hide.


I remind myself that I already know what the inside of a bathroom stall looks like.  My life would be so small if I stayed there.

I'd rather step bravely into the world with blue-and-yellow streaked hair.

 If she can do it, I can do it, too.

Roots

We're limping over the finish line - school finally ends today.  Greta is no longer in elementary school - this fall she heads to middle school.  Finn is reading chapter books and eager to start second grade. 

They are growing up.

I usually feel ambivalent about the last day of school - carrying a nervous pit in my stomach about how on earth I'm going to keep up my hectic work schedule with them home full time.

Not this year.

I'm tired.  I have so many exciting things happening with my non-profit, with my jewelry businesses, with my Arbonne business.  But I'm stretched too thin, and everything is suffering. 

The things I usually do to tend to the soil beneath my own feet - yoga, exercise, meetings, cancer group - have taken a back seat to my schedule.  We all know if you don't care for the roots of a plant it starts to wilt, and my flower is wilting.

I can't imagine giving up any of the things I'm doing - I love them all, and they all fulfill important needs for me financially and spiritually.  But I can't keep this up.

I have decided to put my Etsy shop - Shining Stones - in hiatus for the summer.  If you are still waiting on an order, no worries, I'll get it to you.  But once I have cleared my decks there I'm putting it in vacation mode for two months.  I have to, and I even kind of want to.

I'll keep Two Little Birds Studio open, with the caveat that it may take a couple of weeks to complete any orders. 

I need a break.

Really exciting things are happening for Shining Strong - we're partnering with a world-class addiction rehabilitation center here in the Northesast.  Gosnold on Cape Cod, where I got sober as did two of my very best friends and countless others that mean so much to me. If you go to their website (follow the link) and scroll down you'll see Shining Strong is listed as a partner.   We have big ideas, big plans, to bring the stigma of addiction out into the light and help people know they aren't alone.

I want to focus on that.

My Arbonne business is growing by leaps and bounds - I'm building a team of incredible women who are changing their lives by building their own Arbonne businesses, and it's exciting. I want to be there to help them, too.

I need to be able to exercise, go to yoga, go to recovery and cancer support group meetings.  Those things fill my soul, make it possible for me to make it through the tougher times.

And things haven't been all that easy this month.  I miss my Dad so very much.  June 11th was the anniversary of his death, two years now, and as these exciting things happen I find myself thinking "oh, I can't wait to tell Dad!" only to have the heart stopping realization that he isn't here to tell.  I still have a lot of processing to do.

My anxiety is back.  Not constantly, but enough that it's sapping my energy.  I know it is because I'm not tending to my roots. 

I want to throw myself into this summer without feeling pulled in ten different directions - physically here but mentally absent.  My kids deserve that.  I deserve that.

We have trips planned for most of July - visits to see family, a trip to the Florida Keys, and then I'm going to Chicago for the blogging conference BlogHer.   I want to be present for these things.  I am beginning to understand the affliction of workaholism.   I know my scales are not balanced. 

I will take the summer to regroup, re-prioritize.  I have to.  

It's hard, though, when all the dreams you've had start to gain momentum at the same time.  I don't mean "poor me" hard, I just wish I could space it out more, so I didn't have to pick and choose.

It's only been a year since my last major surgery - the neck dissection that removed 23 lymph nodes and hopefully the last of my cancer.  

I think I'm overdosing on feeling good.  I'm SUCH an addict.  If a little is good, more is better, right?

Wrong.

Back to basics for me: family, self-care, longer stretches of time (heck, ANY stretches of time) where nothing is planned.  Lazy summer days burying my toes in the sand with nothing on my mind but what to read next.

I hope.

I hope I can do this.  If I struggle with a more balanced pace, I know I will have to do some serious re-evaluating of whether I'm running towards, or running from. 

I'm calling myself out, here, for those days when I'd rather manically check emails than go to the beach with my kids.  For the times I drag my laptop with me on vacation and spend more than a few minutes checking in.  For when I am in the middle of a perfectly good summer day and my mind is anywhere but in the present moment.

I want to be in the present moment.  I am concerned I may have forgotten how.

We will do The Bubble Hour podcast every other week during the summer, so my co-hosts and I can have some breathing room.  We don't want the quality of the shows to suffer simply because we feel the world will stop revolving if we aren't live on the air every week.  Of course it won't. In between live shows we will air re-broadcasts of some of our most popular or helpful shows.

I hope you are enjoying a peaceful summer - even if you work full time, I hope you're able to find that breathing space, and time to tend to your roots. 

-Ellie

Routine Scan is an Oxymoron

I lie on the cool plastic table, head strapped down,  an IV piercing my arm.  Moments later the contrast dye courses through my veins, bringing with it the now-familiar feeling of burning throughout my core.

"Hold still, don't swallow," chirps the pleasant voice over the sound system.

What is it about someone telling me not to swallow that makes me NEED to swallow?

The CT scan machine clicks and whirs, and I slide slowly through its dilated eye.  Usually I close my eyes, but today I opened them, observing with an odd detachment the lens zooming by, photographing my insides slice by slice.

This machine is here to help me, I think, repeating the mantra over and over.

I'm at the hospital for my 6 month head and neck CT scan.  "Routine Scan" it's called, although for anyone with cancer there is never, ever such a thing as a routine scan.

More clicks and whirs and I slide slowly out of the machine.  As always, I scrutinize the technician's face for any sign of trouble.  Is her brow a little furrowed?  Maybe she just has gas.  She is a pro, though, and quickly smiles and tells me to head on up to my doctor's office for initial results.

As I sit, and sit, and sit in the dreading head-and-neck oncology waiting room, I peruse my fellow soldiers.  Many of them are in obvious discomfort physically - raw sutures, drainage bags, yellowed bandages, missing parts of ears and jaws and necks.

Some, like me, look normal, and I know their discomfort is tucked neatly away on the inside.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, I am thoroughly convinced there is a team of specialists hovered around my scan slides, scratching their heads and saying, "we've never seen it spread this fast before ... you did say you got all the cancer?"

Five more minutes and I'm a certifiable wreck, although I'm a pro at this now, too, so you'd never know it by looking at my face, which reflects only boredom.

Finally I'm called into the office, and the doctor doesn't waste any time to say the scan looked good.  My shoulders fall about a foot, released tension flowing off me in waves.  He tells me the scans still need to go to radiology for further screening and to call next week if I haven't heard from him.

My shoulders inch up just a tad -- not quite scott free, but almost.

He scopes my nose and my throat and feels the scar tissue on my neck.  I still have no feeling down the whole left hand side of my head and neck where the surgery was.  He tells me this is "routine".

Snapping off his gloves he says, "Looks good.  We'll have another routine scan in 6 months, but I think this time we'll include your chest area, just to be sure."

I nod mutely, swallowing the "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? JUST TO BE SURE OF WHAT?" that threatens to burst out of my mouth.  He means just to be sure there isn't any cancer there.  Why belabor the point?

I cast one more glance around the waiting room as I schedule my next appointment.  It has filled up some -- a woman on a stretcher, her young son holding her hand.   A woman with both eyes bandaged shut.  A man with oxygen flowing in through his nostrils and half his jaw missing.

My fellow fighters.

To us, there is never going to be another "routine" medical exam again.  Ever.   I lean into this knowledge, resist the urge to run away from it, screaming.

It's just how it is, now.  Unroutine is our new routine.

Almost

Four days ago she looked up at me with those big brown eyes, so much like my own, and said, "there's something wrong with my brain, Momma".

I leaned down, pressed my forehead against hers, and closed my eyes.  "There is nothing wrong with your brain, sweetheart. It's your anxiety talking to you. I know just how you feel."

A sob hitched in her chest and a tear rolled down her cheek. She was slumped on the front porch, hair falling around her face. She's been through a lot in the past few weeks, poor kid. My heart breaks for her, even as my own anxiety ratchets up in my chest.

"Will it ever go away?" she asked, quietly.

I hesitated. I have struggled with anxiety since I was about her age - 10 years old.  I'm almost 44, and it's still a monkey on my back.  What to say?  That this may be a lifelong struggle? That there are so many tools at her disposal, but that her brain is hardwired this way?  That it's not her fault? 

In the end, I opted for the simple truth.  "It will get so much better. I promise."

She worries about just about everything, from missing the bus to something falling out of the sky and squashing her flat.

She wants to be perfect, obsessing about homework and grades, twisting herself up into a tizzy over the simplest of things.

It's hard for me to know what to do; it's so close to me.   I self-medicated with alcohol because of anxiety for so many years.  My gut grows cold at the thought of my daughter slipping into the same fate.

It's hard to know where the line is, between truthfulness and reassurance.  I aim for the "not asked, not answered" philosophy, attempting not to give her more than she can absorb.

But she's an old soul, this kid, and she can absorb a lot.

A few weeks ago she fractured her foot, requiring crutches and a boot.  A few days later she had a suspicious mole removed, with the scary diagnosis of "moderate to severe indication of melanoma".  Over the past two years she weathered the sudden death of my father and my own battle with cancer.

She's too old for platitudes now. I can't simply tell her everything will be okay, because she knows I can't guaranty that.  My Mom Superpowers dim as she grows older, my very-much-human skin showing through that shiny veneer of All-Knowingness.

A few days ago the stitches were removed and the "all clear" was given on the suspicious cells.  It was almost melanoma; we caught it in time.  The boot came off yesterday.  Her smile is coming with more frequency, and I realize how much I've missed it.

This morning there were no tears.  She spun happily in the driveway, waiting for the bus, prattling on about a video they are shooting at school... a "Harlem Shake" spin-off.  She gets to wear an Afro wig.  She finds this infinitely hysterical.

Glimpses of the little girl that still resides in her shine through, and I'm grateful.

Almost melanoma. Almost a young woman. Almost.

But not quite.

Zombie Cells and An Old Soul

I struggle with how much I can write about my kids.  They are 10 and 7 now, and while they don't object to me talking about them on the blog, yet, when something scary or sensitive comes up I don't really know where the line is.

When Greta was grappling with anxiety I posted about it, once, and received so much support and helpful advice, that my heart-gut wants to post about what is going on with her now.  But my heart-gut also says it's not my story to tell.

My mind has gone around and around and I've decided to write about it, because it's on my heart and I need to share.

Greta had a suspicious mole removed from her back a couple of weeks ago, and now it's come back as "abnormal cells with moderate to severe indication of melanoma".

GULP.

We're getting lots of advice from her dermatologist and friends about exactly what this means, how concerned we should be.  We know for sure she'll have to go back and have more removed, the usual procedure for anything suspicious.

But the "M" word? For my 10 year old girl?  It makes me want to curl up in a ball and ask someone else to be the parent.

Apparently this is genetic - not sun exposure. When she was 3 days old she developed a large mole and the pediatrician looked at me gravely and said "you're going to have to watch her skin closely ... this isn't usual for such a young baby".

So I'm crazy about sunscreen, sun shirts, doing everything in my limited power to protect her.

But DAMMIT. There is only so much I can do, of course.

Hopefully the silver lining will be that she will checked regularly, her whole life, and this will mean nothing scary can get out of hand.

But I don't WANT that for my kid, Universe.  We've spent the past year and a half in Cancer Land. I'm always going to be a denizen of that realm, and it's taking me a long time and a lot of hard work to come to terms with it for myself.

Please, please, may my daughter never have to live there, too.

This doesn't mean she has cancer or she'll ever get cancer.  My Mom heart soars into terror, knowing how aggressive melanoma is, even as I realize I'm overlaying my own traumatic past year and a half over her. She's not me. I know this.  But if I could jump in front of this bullet for her - even it's a rubber bullet that will only bruise her - I would.

This doesn't help her anxiety, either.  She's too intuitive, too nuanced, to believe my reasonably voiced assurances.  "This could be bad, right, Momma?" she asks, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"It's not anything right now, sweetie," I answer.  She asks more about cancer, and I try to make it simple.  "Cancer is a really scary word, I know," I say. "But all cancer really means is cells that change, and cells change for all different reasons.  And you have strong cells in your body that fight off that bad cells, too.  You are young and healthy and you don't need to be afraid", I say, convincing myself as much as her.

She is quiet a moment, and then she says, "Like Plants vs. Zombies?  The video game? I have some Zombie cells and the Good Plant Cells are fighting them off but sometimes they can't get them all and then they have to take the Zombie cells out?"

After my own stunned silence I say, pushing back tears, "Yes.  It's exactly like that".  Oh, my wise old soul little girl, I don't say.

Some prayers our way would be appreciated. I'm working on keeping my feet planted firmly on the earth, not letting the awfulizing cycle of bad-scenarios take up too much space in my head. 

This morning I watched her sprint like a gazelle down the soccer field, brown ponytail flying behind her, a big smile planted on her face as she lined up a seemingly impossible shot and BAM! -- she scored.   She high fived and hugged her team mates and looked over at us with a grin. There she is. I think.  My girl.  So vibrant and strong and full of life.

And today?  Today things are good.  If we stay in today step by step we'll work through this, like we always do.

The Faces In The Waiting Room

The doors to the elevator whoosh open, and the familiar scents and sounds of the 11th floor Head & Neck Surgical Oncology ward assault my senses. The piney-sweet smell of hospital cleaning fluids, tinged with something vaguely rotten, make me crinkle my nose.

Next to me a woman about my age lies on a stretcher, her neck swathed in bandages and a large surgical drain dangles out of a hole near her collarbone. I unconsciously finger the small white round scar left from my own drain, many months ago.

I tick back in my head and think: how long ago was that me lying there on a stretcher? A few minutes of pondering and I realize it is one year to the day - to the minute, actually - that I had completed the neck surgery that removed a stubborn lump of what we hoped were dead cancer cells and 23 of my lymph nodes.

I shudder, remembering the crippling fear and pain of those days. Waiting anxiously to hear if they got it all, lying helpless in the hospital moaning in discomfort.

One year. Whoa.

The orderly pushes the woman towards me, and I see soft tears quietly streaming down her cheeks. I yearn to grab her hand and tell her this is the worst part.  But maybe it isn't. Maybe she won't be lucky like I was and they couldn't get all her cancer.  I shoot a silent prayer her way, and turn the corner into the head & neck surgical oncology waiting room.  I'm here for a routine check-up, but my stomach is flip-flopping with butterflies. I haven't been here since Christmas, and have been having odd twinges of pain, some difficulty swallowing and increasing dryness in the back of my throat.  I don't know if this is normal or not.

The waiting room is a stark reminder of the ravages of head &  neck cancer. A man with most of his lower jaw missing writes a note to his wife on a little whiteboard. A woman struggles to speak to the receptionist through the hole in her throat.  All around me are people covered in bandages - over eyes, ears, necks and even entire heads.

I look down at my hands, wishing with all my heart I could be somewhere else.  I read yesterday that Roger Ebert's throat cancer came back, and I'm a nervous wreck.

I've been feeling good lately - physically, emotionally and spiritually.  I'm building my new Arbonne business, alongside my thriving jewelry business, and I wake up with a spring in my step every morning, eager to tackle the day.  If you had shown me a picture of my life today when it was me on that stretcher, I would not have believed what I saw.

I have gained all my weight back, and then some, but am working it down again with exercise, yoga and a 30 day fit kit program from Arbonne.  My veins course with healthy vitamins, supplements and proteins.  I have more energy than I can ever remember having.  I feel like I don't belong here, but I do.  I'm still a Cancer Person.

At the end of my treatment I remember thinking: I can't wait until cancer is firmly in my rear view mirror. Here I am, a year later, and I've learned something: cancer is never truly in your rear view mirror.  It's more like a shadow passenger in the back seat, mostly quiet and I think it may have gone, and then I'll hear a faint cough or shuffling of feet and I'll think:  oh yeah.  Cancer's back there.

I'm finally called into the exam room, and the doctor cheerfully asks me how I'm doing. My feet swing madly back and forth as he peers down into my throat, feels around with his gloved fingers, and mutters things like hmmmmm.

Hmmmmm is officially my least favorite sound.

I'm too scared to ask what he sees, and silently let him complete his exam.  He scribbles notes in my folder for what seems like ages, then snaps it shut and turns to me with a smile and says looks good!

A follow-up appointment that will include a CT Scan is scheduled for the end of May.

I rush out of the hospital and into the fresh spring air, feeling like a prisoner on a 10 week reprieve.

Driving home, I think of the faces in the waiting room, wondering what news they are getting today.  I realize I'm always going to be a face in that waiting room - my doctor says he'll follow-up with me "until he retires". He's in his late 40s.

I turn up the radio, roll down the windows and sing along as I drive down the highway.  Cancer settles into the back seat, hunkers down and goes quiet. At least for now.  

The Sprinter and The Trudger

I blow the steam away from the surface of my coffee, anticipating its creamy roasted goodness with a smile.

It's a rare afternoon with no pressing deadlines, no plans, no structure. Sleet spits against the window, blurring the grey and white landscape outside.

I feel poised on the edge of something. I used to feel this way all the time, like a runner hunched over waiting for the gun to go off.  Lately, though, the forced lazy pace of snow days and sick days has unfurled my inner sprinter, forced her to lay low.

Today, for some reason, she's up and itchy, wanting to move forward, press on towards the Next Thing.

What is that Next Thing going to be? I think, with some trepidation.

Cancer honed my ability to live in the day, the moment, which is mostly a blessing.  Thinking about tomorrow, or next week, or next month, when you're in the throes of cancer feels wrong, like testing the fates unnecessarily.

When is it time to move on?  Is the answer never?  Is the answer now?

I had a good natured disagreement with my friend Courtney a while back, about the expression "trudging the road to happy destiny".  I told her it annoyed me, this expression, because I think of trudging as a negative - something you have to do, not something you want to do.  Trudging connoted, for me, feeling the heavy weight of each burdensome step.

She laughed and said she couldn't disagree more.  "Trudging is walking with purpose," she said.  "It's one of my favorite expressions.  When you don't know what else to do? Walk forward with purpose. It works."

She's like this, Courtney.  A casual conversation with her is peppered with all sorts of profound wisdom. She doesn't seem to notice, which makes me adore her even more.

I've been thinking about trudging differently since then.  I trudged my way though early recovery - twice. I trudged my way through the sudden death of my father and the grieving aftermath. I trudged my way through cancer.  I'm trudging my way through a winter clogged with fierce weather and stuffy noses.  Looking back on the past two years, it was trudging that got me through.  Moving through each moment with only one purpose:  keep going.

When I think of trudging, I picture my head down, keeping my view on just the few feet in front of me. This isn't a bad thing, I've come to understand.  Breaking the pace of life into individual footsteps is so contrary to how I lived my life for so long - eyes squarely fixed on the horizon and missing so much that was right under my nose.

So what's next? my inner sprinter wants to know.  Is it the completion of Shining Strong, the non-profit company I'm building?  Is it growing The Bubble Hour even more?  Is it finally writing that book?  What if my cancer comes back? Now that I know how quickly life can change on a dime, do I dare dream?

I feel the anxiety and impatience willing up inside me.  The antidote?  Trudging. Walk forward with purpose, with my eyes focused only on the next few steps.  The outcome has never been up to me, anyway, it just took the cage-rattling experiences of the past two years to make me understand this.

And so I trudge. Every now and then I indulge in a glance back over my shoulder and I think: wow - one step at a time and I've gotten farther than I thought possible. 

Evey now and then I glace up ahead, and think: I wonder what's up there?

My sprinter stamps her feet impatiently, urging me to get there - wherever there is - faster.   It's harder to trudge than to sprint, I tell her.  But it's worth it.

Shame On You, Katie Couric

What's the big deal about Moms who drink?

I want there to be more discussion about this, and not for the reason you may suspect.  Many people think that because I'm an alcoholic, I'm cynical about the press drinking Moms seem to be getting these days.

That's not actually true.

My friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor was on Katie Couric's talk show recently, so of course I watched with interest.  Stefanie is a pioneer in getting the word out about women, moms and drinking, and a pro at handling media appearances (you may have seen her on Good Morning America, Larry King Live and/or 20/20, among others).  She has helped countless women with her brave, funny and approachable spirit, and I'm very grateful she is putting herself out there with such grace.

I'm especially grateful Stefanie is a seasoned media veteran, because I was taken aback by the tone of Katie Couric's interview with Stefanie and other brave Moms coming forward to have a frank discussion about motherhood, drinking and drug use.

Here is a five minute excerpt of Stefanie's portion of the show:

 "Marile Borden is a Boston mom of two who organized a Facebook page called, “Moms Who Need Wine,” which currently has more than 650,500 followers. Stefanie Wilder-Taylor is a mom from Los Angeles who used to enjoy a drink or two at play dates, but gave up alcohol after a big wake-up call."



I recently heard Katie Couric speak at a blogging conference, and I was impressed. She was savvy, down-to-earth, accessible and funny.

I'm not a fan of the talk-show-host Katie. I realize she needs ratings, but I'm chagrined (but not surprised) that to get them she is sharpening her elbows and playing dirty, trying to pit Marile and Stefanie against each other (unsuccessfully, I'm happy to say, because of both of their professionalism and poise) like some Jerry Springer knock-off.

This show was a great opportunity for informed dialogue. Instead we get Katie mimicking swigging wine from a juice-box shaped wine container and badgering BOTH guests.  Katie Couric is trying to create sides in the issue of drinking Moms, and that gets us exactly nowhere.

Despite the middle-school-playground way this show was handled by the Katie Couric show, it raises some important issues.

Is it odd to have a Facebook page called "Moms Who Need Wine" with so many followers?  Is there something wrong with this?

My answer?  Absolutely not.

I would like to believe we live in a world where grown women (and men) can make their own informed, educated decisions about how to handle alcohol responsibly. Does the entire world have to curb their own behaviors because alcoholics exist?  I don't believe so.

Perhaps a better title for "Moms Who Need Wine" would be "Moms Who Want Wine" - but then, of course, it wouldn't be as catchy (or garner as much media attention - props to Marile for the name .. and I'm not being facetious... it's marketing genius).  I have a good friend who writes for their website, and it's not all about drinking.  It's also about the demands, joys, trials and small victories of motherhood.


Other guests on the show included Moms who take Adderall (an ADHD medication), anti-depressants or anti-anxiety drugs, including one Mom who went from Adderall to meth.

These are ALL serious and important issues: anxiety, depression, addiction.  But what was the title of the show?

"Mommy's Little Helper", with the byline: "What Would You Do To Become A Better Mom?"

And we wonder why women are so concerned with stigma?  About any of these issues?

People say they are tired of hearing about whether or not it's okay for Moms to drink.  I'm tired of it, too.  Do we get up in arms if a man (or woman) has a glass of wine or two over a business lunch?  Sure, they may not be as productive or focused when they get back to work, but are they a danger to themselves or others?  Full time Moms (notice I didn't say stay-at-home?) are, to over-simplify a bit, at work all the time.  I don't believe having a glass of wine or two - responsibly - at home or at a play date is any different than anyone having a drink with colleagues.

Can we please stop the media hype on this issue and focus on where the line gets blurred?  When Moms (or anyone, for that matter) get dependent - emotionally or physically - on a drink or a drug to "get them through the day".  When that relaxing glass of wine (or pill) starts to erode your ability to function? Or your peace of mind?

A Mom who is drinking, or taking needed medication, is not automatically putting her kids in danger, and the media hype about this issue only drives the people with a real problem deeper into the shadows.  Katie Couric's line of questioning for each guest seemed to be: "well, couldn't your 'symptoms' just be the normal stresses of life? I feel those things and I'm not popping pills/drinking".

Can we drop the "Better Mom" wars?  Shame on Katie Couric and her producers for exacerbating this Quixotic phenomenon.  Should a Mom with post-partum depression think she should just "buck-up"?  Should a Mom with crippling anxiety feel she's weak if she needs medication to cope?  Should a Mom who likes to have a glass of wine with friends feel judged?

No.

Not anymore than an addict or alcoholic should feel shame about the disease of addiction.  Being a "better Mom" has NOTHING to do with responsible recreational use, anymore than addiction makes someone a bad mom.  Addicts and alcoholics have a disease - we don't set out to ruin our lives or put our children in danger.

Having said that - and this is important - it IS the responsibility of an addict or alcoholic to get help and get well, once the problem is apparent. Any and all measures should be taken - as drastic as needed - to help someone stop abusing drugs and/or alcohol.  A disease does not give anyone the right to shirk getting well.

 So how do you know? How do you figure out if you're heading for trouble with drinking?  From my own experience - and the shared experiences of many other women - there are some things to look out for:

• Drinking every day at around the same time.
• Thinking about your nightly drink(s) earlier in the day.
• Planning activities around drinking/avoiding friends who don't drink "enough" or activities where there won't be any drinking.
• Sneaking sips/glasses.
• Lying about how much you're drinking.
• Drinking alone more than occasionally.
• Feeling shame about your drinking.
• Having memory lapses or "grey-outs" (where you can only remember parts of things).
• Increased anxiety, sleeplessness or irritability when you can't (or don't drink).
• Always finishing your drink, and noticing others' drinking - comparing your drinking to others.

This is by no means a comprehensive list, but it is a start. Even one of these symptoms could be an indication that drinking is becoming a problem. There is a school of thought that if you're an alcoholic you can't stop drinking without help, and this may be true.  But there is no harm is helping people understand early warning signs. 

Without informed, judgment-free discourse about difficult topics like depression, anxiety, alcoholism and addiction, we don't have a chance of healing. 

And, please, in the name of all that's sane, can we please leave Perfect Motherhood out of this discussion? 

While we're at it, can we leave it out of ALL discussions?

Recovering Chaos Junkie

I used to hate routine.

In early recovery I realized that I was facing two intertwined addictions:  alcohol and chaos.

I didn't know that I loved chaos until it was gone. I have heard others in recovery speak about this, so I know I'm not the only one.  I was talking to a friend about this the other day, how I used to be, in my words, a "chaos junkie".

When I was at the worst of my alcoholism - when denial had a firm grip on me - I used to feel so sorry for people who did things like get up at 6am to jog, or went to bed early so they could tuck into a good book, or who sipped one glass of wine all night and then STILL walked away from it, unfinished.

I would see well-adjusted people and think: they must be so bored, as I clutched my wine glass a little more tightly.

That's what alcoholism did to me; it made me believe my life of scrambling to keep up with the day-to-day obligations of life, the untangling of half-truths and outright lies, the grey or black-out nights, the nursing morning hangovers and the obsessing over my next drink, was exciting.

Of course, looking back on it now I realize my life was empty, shallow - a mile wide and an inch deep.  I had lots of friends, but I didn't let many people get too close for fear they'd find out my horrible secret.

When I finally embraced recovery because I wanted it for myself - this took months - I began to embrace routine, too.  Eventually I began to need routine; I craved predictability like I used to crave alcohol:  without it I became fearful, timid and reclusive.

I discovered that not only did I not love chaos, but that any new situation made me profoundly uncomfortable. I didn't like calling people that I didn't know; a call to my bank, or a store, would make me nervous.  I wanted to know the system of every place I went in to; I didn't try new restaurants or stores for months.

Basically, I realized that at heart I'm an anxious, shy person.  I felt so brave and confident when I drank - I'd walk in anywhere, talk to anyone.  It was a shock to find out that wasn't really me.

This got better, over time.  I am still hesitant to try new things; going to a new conference, for example, makes me anxious.  A new city, a hotel I've never stayed at before, a party at someone's house who I don't know well, a play group or house party where I don't know many people (what if they lost my reservation?  what if I get lost on the train? what if nobody talks to me?) makes me uneasy, but I do it anyway.  I practice stretching my wings - not too far - but enough so that I don't let fear govern my life.

Mostly, though, I cherish routine.

I never thought I'd feel this way.  In early sobriety I complained so much about how bored I was, mourning my old "exciting" way of life, that a friend joked she was going to get me a tee shirt with a big red number 5 on it (as in ... on a scale of 1 to 10, I loved 1 or 10 and hated 5, thinking it was boring, and all I heard from everyone is that to stay sober I had to embrace 5).

The last few weeks have brought some change into our lives.  My husband got a new job, and we're both excited about the new opportunity, but I had become accustomed to him working eight miles away, home predictably at the same time most nights so we could have family dinner or I could go to a meeting.  Now he's commuting into the city - leaving before I'm awake in the morning and coming home half an hour before the kids have to go to bed.   It's a big adjustment.

Someone has been sick in this house for three weeks, knocking me off my routine.  I missed exercise, yoga and meetings (both cancer support groups and recovery meetings) for almost two straight weeks.

I've been having trouble sleeping - lying awake staring at the ceiling until 2 or 3am every night. I had an undercurrent of anxiety that followed me everywhere.  I got sick, and spent the better part of a week in bed - sick enough to feel poorly but not sick enough to sleep.

The anxiety grew, my monkey mind wouldn't leave me alone.  It took me a while to realize what was out of whack:  routine.

We all got better towards the end of last week, (knock wood) and then the kids had a four day weekend (MLK day and a professional day for teacher training) so once again I couldn't go to my normal activities.

My anxiety peaked on Monday night; I couldn't sleep, had lost my appetite and felt near tears.

Yesterday everyone woke up healthy and trotted off to work and school.  I stared at the four walls of my house, simultaneously soaking up the silence and feeling completely out of sorts.  I paced from room to room, sat down to work on jewelry, got up again to pace some more, meditated ineffectively, tried to read and then it hit me:  get back into your routine, Ellie.

I went for a walk, then did some yoga.  My mind quieted immediately.

I slept like a baby last night.

Today I woke up feeling refreshed and grateful.

After the bus rumbled away, I meditated for half an hour, then went to yoga.  I did some work, and then sat down to write this.  The anxiety is gone.  POOF.

My name is Ellie, and I'm a grateful recovering chaos junkie.

A Scary, But Healing, Truth

I write this with some trepidation and no small amount of fear in my heart.

I've been waiting to see if the moment would come when I was ready to talk about this - a little - and was open to that moment never coming at all.

But, much to my surprise, the moment seems to be here.  I don't know why. I don't control these things anymore; that much I have accepted.

And the reality is that this isn't anyone's business but my own, my family's and my recovery community.

But after praying on it, asking for advice, getting some advice I first didn't want to hear and have absorbed and thought about long and hard, I've decided to write- a little -about something that could shock or even hurt some of you.  I needed to be ready for that reaction.  I needed to remind myself of the advice I give on a daily basis - that your truth can never be wrong, because it's yours, and you are under no obligation to share it with anyone who isn't safe.

Once I put this out there I don't control where it goes, but it has gotten to the point where I feel enough past it to be secure in putting it out there, because it is what it is, anyway, and now that I've done a lot of work on myself and come to terms with it, I feel hypocritical hiding my truth out of pride.

Last year, some time after finding the lump in my neck, I had a relapse.  It was brief, and terrifying, and almost took me right down.  I am lucky to have the supportive family I have, the recovery network I have, and the ability to know what to do:  march into a safe, sacred circle of fellow alcoholics in recovery and start again.  

I am not going to share the details -when, where, how, why - those are reserved for my most intimate recovery community.  I have learned I don't have to share every gory detail to still be truthful.  I'm not going to say how much time I have now, because in order for me to come back from this relapse I had to focus on the fact that we all - every one of us - only have 24 hours.  A 24 hour reprieve from the obsession and compulsion of alcoholism.

I will share one very important anecdote, though, for those of you filled with shame (especially mothers) who keep relapsing, and the guilt is keeping you stuck.   Greta knew about this relapse - we talked about it - and she said, "You've always said it's not the mistake you make, it's what you do about it that matters, Mom."

THAT's recovery.  That is a kid who doesn't have a perfect Mom who works a Perfect Program (there is no such thing) and is immune to relapse - none of us are.  But that is a kid who has learned that mistakes are part of life -without them we don't grow - and it's how we respond to them that matters.  Do we deny and stuff them?  Or do we face the hard truths and grow?

I made other mistakes along the way - some say to me "after THAT year you had?  Who could blame you?"

I'm not looking to assign blame or make excuses; I'm looking for the truth, and that fine line between what is everyone's business, what is my business, and what is meant to be kept sacred in my recovery community.

I can see now why that relapse had to happen.  I was in for a long, hard road, and I had to surrender to my disease in a more meaningful way - in other words I had to scare myself silly - because over the coming months I also had to surrender to fear, anxiety, mortality and control, as I lay in my bed, sick and wondering if I was going to make it, and fight it or let it go.  Letting it go brought peace.  I think the relapse reminded me of my powerlessness over so much in life.

I am fearful of judgment, of course I am. I have a massive case of "who do you think you are's", and I'm scared of my community's reaction.  But not that scared.  Not scared enough to finally get this truth out there, and move on, one day at a time.

I write about this here mostly to  help myself, first.  Secrets keep me sick, and I'm not ashamed of the relapse anymore (that was months of work).  What does make me ashamed is hiding the truth.

By telling the truth I'm doing the healthiest thing for me, while still trying to keep some boundaries firmly intact.

I'm grateful to all of you for all the support you have always shown me - I realize that some of you may feel duped and not want to offer that support anymore. That could be a consequence, and I'm ready for it.  People pleasing is one of the things that lies at the heart of my disease, and truth is the antidote to that demon.  Saying my truth and being okay with not being universally liked or respected is healing for me. And terrifying; I won't say it isn't.

No matter how this post is received, I am grateful - beyond words - for my recovery, for the lessons I've learned over the past year, for my family, friends, and for YOU.