On Fear, Ego and Gratitude. With a Cameo by Queen Latifah.

I used to think that what made me different from everyone else was my fear.

Fear of just about everything - not fitting in was at the top of the list. I didn't realize what a fruitless goal fitting in actually is, because the bar is always moving.  Am I supposed to be fashionable like her? Brave like him? Popular like them? Athletic? Thin? Soulful? Smart?

Like a chameleon, I would shape shift to fit in with whoever I was talking to, while a silent ticker tape ran in my head: does this person like me? Am I fitting in? 

It's exhausting.

I was afraid of rejection, abandonment, vulnerability.  I thought that if I didn't look like I had my shit together that everything would fall apart. I believed that people loved the version of me I had shown them, and that if they knew about the vast emptiness inside me, if they knew about the fear, they would run for the hills.

Automatically, anything that came from deep inside me was rejected as inadequate.

I filled this hole inside me with anesthesia for so long.  Motherhood scared me, so I numbed it out with wine. Crowds of people scared me, so I numbed it out with a false extroverted persona.   I was simultaneously afraid of being ignored and being recognized.  Nothing -and I mean nothing - was ever good enough.

Enough. There's a concept. Having enough. Being enough.   For a long time, I defined "enough" from the outside in ... and not surprisingly the feeling of having enough or being enough eluded me.

What I didn't know is that everyone is afraid, whether they know it or not.  We're conditioned to hide it, to appear put together, sure of ourselves.  Social media exacerbates this phenomenon -- you don't see many Facebook updates about how bored, messy, afraid, angry or resentful we are.

I'm still afraid a lot, except now I don't have my anesthesia.  Facing fear naked is, well, scary.  Sobriety robbed me - gradually - of the ability to fake it, to appear fine when I'm not.  Little by little, I began to recognize that my fear of life was incredibly selfish, ego run rampant.  The world simply doesn't care about my fine-ness as much as I'd like to believe it does.

Cultivating the courage to be open, vulnerable, was the key to freedom from fear, it turns out, but when I began blogging, dumping my imperfections and fears out on the page for the world to see, I was terrified.  I would walk through the supermarket convinced I knew what everyone was thinking about me:  there she goes, the alcoholic. I'm so glad I'm not like her. 

How self centered is that? 

Little did I know that being open and vulnerable would bring people in, not send them away.

I went to the blogging conference BlogHer in Chicago this past week.  As I wrote about in my last post, I was feeling fear and unworthiness about reading a post of mine at the Voices of the Year community keynote in front of thousands of people.  My old nemesis fear was riding shotgun, fueling my fear-based ego:  you're unworthy of this, people will mock you, ignore you, talk behind your back. You're not as good as the other readers, not as important a blogger. 

Sitting behind the stage, waiting for my turn to read, I was lost in self, in fear.  Every cell in my body screamed at me: you're SMALL.

So I prayed.  I got out of my own head. I looked around at my fellow readers and felt such joy for them, and it hit me: what's wrong with feeling joy for myself?  

Gratitude overwhelmed me as I prayed:  I get to have this amazing experience. It doesn't define me in any way, it's just a really amazing thing I get to do. 

Living closed off in fear is so much harder than living open and vulnerable.  So many amazing people have come into my life - people I used to peek at from my self-perceived sideline and think: wow, she's got it all together.  Now some of these people are good friends - soul mates, even - and we are broken and beautiful together.   I try to fill that emptiness inside me with acceptance - first of myself, then of others.  Jealousy or resentment let me know that fear is taking control again.  Feelings of unworthiness make me examine my ego, tell me that I'm closing off instead of opening up.

When I took the stage that night I felt only peace and gratitude.  I took a deep breath and read my piece as though I was the only person in the room.

Reading "Behind the Veil"

Because that's who I write for:  me.

Of course, this was pretty awesome, too:

Queen Latifah emcee'd the Voices of the Year

I Can't Believe It! And a giveaway!

It CAME today!  My new book!  I didn't expect it to arrive so quickly, and I'm SO happy with the way it turned out!

Please excuse morning hair and face. Too excited to get dolled up for the picture!

I am holding in my hand one of my dreams.  Granted, it's not the same as being published on Amazon or through a literary agent, but hey - it's a step in the right direction and I'm really proud of it.

The color edition of this book is more expensive than the black and white, and I went back and forth as to which one I should pick, but I'm so pleased with the color, and especially when it comes to the photos in the book, it makes such a difference:

I seriously cannot believe I'm holding a book in my hand with the words "by Ellie Schoenberger" on the cover. I can't even pretend to be modest or sheepish about it.  I'm thrilled.

As I wrote about before, the profits from book sales are going to fund Crying Out Now and The Bubble Hour.  These labors of love have reached hundreds of thousands of people, and I've reached the end of what I can afford to do on my own and still keep these sites going.  Some wonderful people (announcement coming soon) have volunteered their time to help me keep them going, but the actual expenses are growing (just to maintain the sites).

If you want to support these sites - if they have helped you or someone you love -and you want a "Best Of" compilation of my posts so far (talking about my journey through alcoholism/recovery, weight loss, my father's sudden death, cancer and the joys and trials of everyday life with two young kids) there is still time to receive it before the holidays.  The softcover (color) edition is pricier than normal, but it goes to a good cause.  You can also get the eBook edition (for MAC products) and pdf versions (for PCs) for $9.99.

But the book makes a great gift, if I do say so myself.  :)

Even if I never, ever sell another one, I still can't believe I accomplished this dream that has been on my list for ages.  Thank you to Heather of the EO for the idea, and to Blurb.com for making it uncomplicated to do for a technically challenged person like myself.

If you are interested in ordering the book or eBook, you can go here to do so.

Thank you to everyone who has supported these causes by buying the softcover or downloading the eBook or pdf so far.  I can't tell you adequately in words what it means to me.  And the thousands of people out there struggling with addiction thank you, too.

And if you think I should make it available in black and white at a more affordable price ($15.99) will you leave that feedback here?  I'm so in love with the color photos, but maybe it makes more sense to make it black & white so more people can afford it?  Unfortunately I have to pick one or the other. What do you guys think?

I am smiling from ear to ear today.  I am still working on a book of original writing that I hope to find agent representation for someday.  Someday.  Achieving this dream makes my confidence level to be able to achieve that next goal so much higher.

It's a good day.

I'm going to give away one autographed copy of my book!  If you have already purchased one (eBooks and pdf files count, too) or you purchase one in the next three days, leave a comment and I'll give you FIVE entries.  If you leave feedback on whether I should produce a black & white version instead, I'll give you TWO entries.  And if you comment and say you'd like an autographed copy, I'll give you ONE entry.

The winner will be chosen on Friday, December 7th via random.org:


Thank you!

Killing The Question Mark

I am sitting in my jewelry studio, which looks like a tornado went through it, although as I always say "It's an organized mess".  I know where everything is, and if someone came in and cleaned it up I'd be lost. 

I think that's just the way my artist brain works; it thrives on jumbles. Jumbles of thoughts, ideas, colors, textures, priorities, designs - the list could go on and on.

For the first time, ever, I'm owning my artistry. I have always said what I do with a question mark at the end, like "I make jewelry?" or "I write a blog?".   

I'm done with that. I have dreams, dammit, and that question mark is in the way.  Part of this new found existential enthusiasm is because of Brene Brown's book Daring Greatly - you all know I love me some Brene Brown - and I'm understanding, finally, that the key to  my artistry IS my vulnerability. What I produce, whether it is writing, jewelry or creating outlets for sober people to share community it comes from my heart.  And sometimes, I admit, it makes me feel very naked.  Or, more accurately, it makes my soul feel naked, and that's scary.  

And a blessing. So much of my life was spent people pleasing, or numbing out, or trying to force you to like me by being who I thought you wanted me to be. 

I am literally incapable of doing that anymore, and that is a miracle and a gift.  

I still struggle with Ego.  Maybe that's a good thing; the people I know who don't struggle at all with their Ego aren't very likable. I'm so afraid of coming across as an egomaniac that I run the other way and get all question-marky about my creativity, my business, my dreams.  

I fall into old patterns all the time.  Next week my mom and I are going to the Massachusetts Conference for Women.  Brene Brown will be a speaker (along with a world-class lineup, including Deepak Chopra as keynote speaker).  But I'm there mostly there to hear Brene speak. I even made my Mom read her book. 

I was chatting on the phone with my Mom the other day and she encouraged me to have a copy of my new book Let Me Get This Straight  to give to Brene in case I have the opportunity to get a signed book from her, or shake her hand, or something.  As she was suggesting this, I was shaking my head on the other end of the line.  No way, I thought. There is no way I could do that. It's egotistical and she must get inundated with books all the time and I could never, ever have the guts to promote myself like that. 

My Mom waited a polite beat, and said, "You just made me read this book about Daring Greatly and you won't do this?"  

I laughed. Of course she's right.   "At least have a business card ready to hand to her if you run into her in the ladies' room," she said. 

I had a screaming case of the "who do I think I am"s.  Why do I do that?  Why do so many of us do that?  Scott Stratton, who wrote the book Unmarketing , and who I heard speak at a conference once, has a great line: "do you know who I think I am?" 

I have the opposite problem, but I'm working on it.

It took every ounce of guts I had to promote my book, and to keep talking about it to people.  I really, really want to put a question mark at the end: "I put together a book?"  

But I won't.  I'm learning from some awesome, strong successful women around me - who also sometimes struggle to own their talent, their creativity - to kill the question mark.  We have to prop each other up sometimes.  Because I can see their talent shining from a mile away, and it breaks my heart when I see them down on themselves, and I do my best to set them straight.  Thankfully, they return the favor, too.

My good friend Jessica Bern (the truly amazingly funny and talented co-creator of Two Funny Brains and an internet series currently in production called BlogThat) ordered some jewelry from me the other day, and I sent her the price and then said, "Is that okay?"

Here is her response:  "that is fine although do not ask another customer if your price is "okay" again. You hear me? Your price is your price. If they don't want to pay, fuck em."

THAT is a good friend. 

Daring Greatly is HARD, because you have to be ready for "No", or to have your expectations not met, or to feel small or less than is some way.  The reward, though, is the feeling that you're out there swinging, no matter what.  And that you can't force anyone to do anything for you - like buy your book, read your blog, buy your jewelry - if they don't want to.  It would be nice to have that kind of control over people, but I'm just not that powerful.

My precious Ego gets me into a lot of trouble.

So I'm bringing a business card (I won't have a copy of my book yet - or as my Mom put it "If God wants Brene Brown to have a copy of your book it will arrive before December 6th") to the conference and going to the restroom a lot.  You know, in case she's in there.   

Dreams have been launched from odder places, I'm sure.

Pile Denial - Friendship, Connection and Trust

This is not a standard recap of my experience at the Creative Alliance conference in Ojai, CA this past weekend.

Not really.

This is a post about friendship, connection and trust.

There is something about this conference  - I don't even want to call it a conference - that defies explanation. I'm hoping that one of the 50 creative women who were there will find the right word for it when they write about their own experience there. Maybe there needs to be a new word to describe the atmosphere, the culture, the vibrating molecules in the air.

It isn't a surprise that when you put fifty creative, intelligent, innovative, talented entrepreneurs and writers under one tent that sparks will fly.  What is surprising is the sparks aren't created by the clanging of pointy elbows jockeying for position, recognition or posturing. The sparks ignite from ideas flying through the air and pinging off words of advice, comfort and wisdom.

Fifty successful (defined not simply by money, not by a long shot), driven women sit in a circle and talk.  Creative types, people who like to be seen and heard and felt.  Women who want to make a mark in the world, make a difference.

You'd think there would be too many Egos to fit in the room tent.

It is a circle of fifty successful, innovative, driven, creative women and we're all rooting for each other.  It's that rare gathering where nobody there wants to see you trip, or fail.

There is a trust, a bond, a something (this is where I need that word, that one that may not exist yet) that allows people to open up, show their insides, share their dreams and fears without fear of judgment or gossip.

The Blue Iguana Inn, Ojai, CA

Because what we find out is we're all the same inside - whether we create a product, deliver a service, make people laugh, or think - whether we're in it for the money or to do a little good in the world (or both), we all want to be heard.  We all want to be validated, encouraged.  And, believe it or not, help correcting our path if something isn't working.

I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it twice now, with my own eyes and heart - women who strive for the very same thing comparing notes, offering resources, high fives or a tissue to dry tears.

It's a huge ocean, and there is room for all of us. There aren't many new ideas, so as we bob around in this tumultuous creative sea, we can separate and watch each other flail, possibly drown, and hope we're the last one standing, the most successful, the first or the only, or we can band together and keep each other afloat so we all make it. Every last one of us.

It's a place of truth-telling; not just of your own dreams and fears, but of constructive criticism, or even outright concern.

Some of these women know me well.  Better than I know myself.  They know my heart, my dreams, what is in the core of me.  I trust them with my life, and in the past year I have quite literally trusted them with my life. They couldn't cure my cancer, but they could lift up my spirit, or tell me they are worried because I don't seem right - too "fine" or too stressed or too depressed or anxious.  When they ask me how I'm doing, they really want to know.

And sometimes, they don't even need to ask.

Over the course of the weekend, several of the people who know me best expressed concern about me and all my manic "I'm FINE-ness".   I didn't seem like the Ellie they knew, because of all the heartfelt sharing we had done so many times.

Instead of turning a blind eye, or chalking it up to stress from cancer, or losing my Dad, or any myriad of practical reasons, they sat me down, looked me in the eye and asked me, "NO - are you REALLY okay."

And the answer - as it is all too often - is that I am okay, and I'm not.  I'm still reeling from the past 14 months of loss and fear and illness.  I want so badly to be totally fine - the old me - that I ignore any cracks or signs that maybe I'm not as far down the path of healing - not just physically, but emotionally.

Friends like these sit you down and ask you the hard questions and watch you squirm and cry and try to talk your way around it and back into "I'm fine" and they don't let up until they've helped you dig right to the core of you again.

We ended up laughing about everything they helped me understand about myself; we usually do end up at laughter, thank God.  As I rattled off all the things on my plate - my continued fear of scans, cancer survivory (which I just turned into a verb), missing my Dad, crazy hormones from chemotherapy and peri-menopause, my daughter's upcoming tonsillectomy surgery and other struggles, I finally sighed and said "I have a big pile, don't I?"

Yes, you do, they said, gently and firmly.  And you still need a lot of help.

"I'm in Pile Denial", I chuckled, not because I don't respect their advice or the fact that I'm still under stress, but because it's true, and I need a little funny with my truth.

Collectively we laughed, cried, stretched, grew, wrote, spoke our truths out loud and in our minds and hearts.

There aren't really words.

I come home hollowed out and filled back up again, grateful for the truth-telling love of my friends, and the new friendship seeds that were planted, just waiting to take root and blossom.

The amazing Sue Bob made a video, which captures this experience better than my words can:




A heartfelt thank you to Lee and Andrea for putting this together, again, and all the women who worked behind the scenes to help them and prop them up, too.  And to everyone who attended, listened, laughed, cracked open and told your truth - thank you.

Creative Alliance '12 - Leaving My Hammer At Home

I love this rumbling anticipation I'm feeling.

In two days I'm heading to Los Angeles, and then north to Ojai for the Creative Alliance conference.  It's not really a conference - more like a retreat - where creative women get together to fuse our energies, prop each other up, listen to our dreams and fears and walk away having forged new friendships that, by default, become a hybrid of a creative alliance and support group.

I went two years ago, to the last one, and my life hasn't been the same since. No exaggeration.

Before that conference I was a jumble of nerves, but for a completely different reason.  I had a bad case of the "smalls"; I didn't feel worthy to be there, in the presence of some powerhouse social media types, creative geniuses and bloggers I had admired from afar for years.  I didn't think I had anything to contribute, but 2010 was a year of a lot of firsts for me, so I went anyway.

Creative Alliance '10 cured me of the 'smalls'. Thanks to Creative Alliance '10, I put my hammer down.  You know, the one I use on myself?  Every now and then I'll pick it up again, and then one (or several) of my Creative Alliance friends will tell me to put the damn hammer down, remind me I'm worthy.

I found my own creative voice; realized I did have dreams and ambitions, and was already on my way to achieving them, through ventures like Crying Out Now and my jewelry.   I had wasted so much energy comparing myself to others, falling into that old behavioral trap of looking for ways I didn't measure up.  I didn't know 95% of the women there, and I had no idea what to expect.  I didn't exactly picture them pointing and laughing at me - I already knew they had too much soul for this type of behavior - but I did picture lots of heads cocked in confusion, thinking: you're doing what, exactly?

OH, my precious ego.

As we sat in the circle introducing ourselves for the first time, I felt my hands shake in nervous anticipation of my turn. I had a tendency to tell people about my business, my blogs, with a self-deprecating interrogatory slant, like a question:  I write two blogs?  And I run a small business?   Almost like I was asking their permission to exist.

When my turn came, I squared my shoulders and did my best to drop the question mark. Hearing myself articulate not just my accomplishments but also my dreams (saying your dreams out loud is hard, and vulnerable-making), to a room full of women I previously considered intimidating, was so freeing.  Hearing some of the biggest names in the social media world voice their own fears, or neuroses, put me instantly at ease.

We're all the same inside, I thought, us creative types.  Balancing on that beam of creativity and ambition.  Juggling mission and ego.  Creating from inside but still needing some kind of validation, especially from within our own community.

Those bigger, crazier conferences (that I shall not name) are so loud, and crazy, and full of egos clamoring for attention. Those conferences bring out the worst in me, and I won't say my own ego isn't tossing its hat into the fray, hoping to be noticed.

That's not what Creative Alliance is about, not at all. It's about finding your inner light, articulating your dreams, obstacles and fears to safe people who get it - man, do they get it - and forming a community that will pool their ideas and resources to help you achieve those dreams.

This year, I can't wait.

About half of last year's attendees are coming back, and there are many new women whose dreams, accomplishments and ambitions I can't wait to hear about.  I will leave inspired, filled up.

I have to push through some fears, though. I'm still not a big fan of flying, although I'm much better. The tools I'm learning to cope with cancer fear apply to flying, too, interestingly.  I have to land in LA, secure a rental car and spend one night by myself in an airport hotel. I used to do these things almost robotically, when I traveled for work in my previous life. Now I'm up at 2am rehearsing in my head how it's all gonna go down, as if I have any control over it.  That crazy brain squirrel is hard at work on his wheel, huffing and puffing away in the wee hours of the night.  Damn squirrel.

Before I know it, though, it will be over, and I'll be filled up again, full of dreams and ambitions and new friendships.

~~~~~~~~

A little bit of business:  Truthful Tuesdays is now going to be Truthful Thursdays, so I can participate in Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write link-up, which occurs every Tuesday.

Also - I had to switch to a new email/RSS feed service (I barely even know what that means, so forgive my lack of technical expertise). Long story short, if you think you should be getting my new posts in your Inbox, but you're not, please sign-up again (right hand sidebar, just below BlogHer ads).  If you don't already get my new posts via email but would like to, that's where to sign up, but please be sure to activate your subscription by following the link sent to your Inbox, or else you won't get the updates.

Thank you.

Blogging Shame

The other day I was somewhere (won't say where to protect the innocent) with a bunch of people from around town - some I knew, some I didn't know at all.

A woman was taking me around and introducing me to people. I couldn't place this woman's face,  but knew we must have met before in some context because she was so comfortably friendly with me, and was asking after the kids, how I was feeling, etc. I was embarrassed I didn't remember her, so I was hiding that the whole time she was taking me around I was thinking; how on earth do I know this woman? 

We approached one woman I was certain I had never seen before (I would have remembered her stunning beauty) and as we shook hands the 'introducer' said to the other woman, "you know her - she's One Crafty Mother".

"OH!" said the stunning woman. "It's so nice to finally meet you in person!"

Some strange, strangled noise escaped from my throat, and I mumbled some pathetic response, "Um, yeah, yes! That's me."  She proceeded to talk to me about how much one aspect of my blog has helped a family member of hers, and said she was a long-time reader but never had "the guts" to comment.

I never, ever know what to do in these situations.  I instantly feel ashamed - which I find really intriguing. You'd think I'd be flattered, maybe, or grateful that someone likes my blog?  But the first feeling to leap to the surface is a gut-sinking shame.

Who do you think you are, the shame tells me. Here she is saying how much she likes your writing and you don't deserve a word of it.

Why? Why is that? Is it because as women we are all too often programmed to fade into the background, keep our secrets and feelings, even our accomplishments, neatly tucked under our skirts (or yoga pants, as the case may be).  How can I feel so passionately about vulnerability, spreading the word about addiction, recovery and speaking about my cancer journey and then have this strong shame reaction when someone says it helps them?

Usually, when I'm face to face with people who know me as "One Crafty Mother" I'm at a blogging conference, and referring to people as their blog or twitter name is a common, if not bizarre, tactic.  It's how we know each other, and it doesn't feel weird at all.

When I'm around town, though, it feels really odd to be known as "One Crafty Mother".  I know lots of local people read my blog - I want that, and I don't get to pick and choose who reads it.  It's my choice to put myself out there, and when I push past shame of course I'm glad people are reading, of course I'm glad it's helping.  So why do I feel like making myself so small when confronted with it face to face?

It was the same after I lost all the weight - people would tell me I looked great and I'd feel shame.  Like I was showing off or something, instead of pride that I had worked damn hard to shed over 65 lbs.  Instead of saying "thank you", I'd mumble some idiotic lie like 'it's not that big of a deal', or 'I still have a ways to go', just to minimize my accomplishment.

That shameful, embarrassed person resides in me as much as the writer who feels passionately about being open, honest and vulnerable about her journeys - whether through addiction, weight loss, grief, cancer or spirituality.

It's a dichotomy I'm having a hard time getting my mind around.  I wonder if I should have blogged anonymously - kept my identity a secret - but then I realize the fact that people know me, as a real person, makes it easier to identify with my story.

Sometimes I get into a spiral where I think: why are you doing this? why are you out there writing about all this if you feel this shame when you meet someone face to face and they COMPLIMENT you? 

I think, when I'm able to be somewhat objective about it, it's because I never, ever want to appear like I'm grand-standing, showing off, or acting like I've got it all figured out.  When someone compliments me - even though they're not saying "Wow, Ellie, have YOU got it all figured out" - I feel like somehow I am making a bigger deal out of myself than I deserve.  What they are saying, usually, is "I identified with what you wrote; I feel the same way".

And THAT is why I write. To cultivate a sense of togetherness, community, a we're-not-in-it-alone-ness.  Women can be hard on each other.  I hear more gossipy talk putting other people down than I hear people building each other up.  I like the cracks in people, the fragile parts, the human-ness.  We don't usually sit around having coffee and talking about our fragile parts, the ways we feel we don't measure up. To compensate, we either put others down or we brag.

I am so fearful of appearing like a bragger that I don't even know how to take a compliment.

If you live around town and we meet, it's okay to refer to me as One Crafty Mother, or tell me you know me through my blog.  Clearly, I need some practice simply saying "Hello, nice to meet you!" or how about just plain "Thank you!" when you tell me you like my writing?

If you don't like me or my writing, though, please feel free to keep it to yourself, or just gossip about it with others.  I'm not THAT healthy, yet.

Yet.

~~~~


And speaking of vulnerability, if you haven't read Jane's post below for the first installment of "Truthful Tuesday", please do.  And comment if you can - it means so much to get comments when you bare your soul so bravely, like she did.   Thank you. 

Bright Lights, Backyards and Blogher12

The train to NYC is clacking along, and I press my forehead to the window to watch the scenery fly by.

I'm on my way to BlogHer12, in New York City.  I love traveling by train.  

In an airplane, from the sky, the world below seems too organized, parceled out in neat sections of houses, roads, buildings.  You can't see any of the nitty gritty of life; from the air the world looks scrubbed clean.

Not so on a train.  On a train you see the back sides of things; backyards, junkyards, objects and people who live outside the scrutiny of the public eye.

We travel so close to some houses that I feel I could reach out  and touch their back porches.  I see a tired looking mother, hair disheveled, smoking a cigarette on her back porch while her toddler screams in fear as the train rushes by.  

Two homeless women pass a bottle back and forth behind an auto-parts store, and I take a moment to give thanks and remember: there but for the Grace of God go I.

Amazingly, there is a dirty tent pitched in some scrub bushes between the rushing highway and the train tracks; it couldn't be more than 15 feet from either one.  A threadbare American flag flies from a stick in the ground outside the tent.  This is somebody's home.

As we pass through a residential district, I watch, enthralled, as on the far side of the street we pass neat row houses: hedges trimmed, lawns mowed, toys put neatly away.  But on the near side of the street the passengers on the train are privy to the backside of these houses: backyards piled with rotting junk, moldy old toys, dogs chained to posts, looking despondent.  A mother pushes her kid on an ancient metal swing set, looking bored.  The child wears a beaming smile.  Next to her is a rotting picnic table and a rusted out car.  The detritus of life we don't want people to see.

Someone posted this on their Facebook page this week, and I loved it:

On this blog I'm all about behind-the-scenes.  I have no patience or inclination to talk about highlight reels (not that they are numerous).  I don't share everything here, of course I don't, but I love to write about the tucked-away places, the backyards and hidden closets of the mind.  The things most of us don't want to talk about, because we're too busy trying to people-please or impress.

As a recovering people-pleaser, I know how hard it is to resist these comparisons.  Every time I get my college alumni magazine (I went to an ivy league school - see? that's a highlight reel, I've never mentioned it here before) and reading about all the impressive things my fellow alumni are doing I want to curl up into the fetal position, or start brainstorming about what it is exactly I'm going to do to take over the world.

The people, and the writing, I'm drawn to are all about the vulnerable places, the tender spots, the thoughts we tuck away because we wonder if we're the only ones who think them.

I'm contemplating all this as I head to my third BlogHer conference.  The first one, three years ago, was also in New York, and I spent the whole time comparing my behind the scenes to everyone else's highlight reel.  

I don't do that anymore.

It helps that I have an incredible group of very real, very back-yardish friends with whom I feel as safe as I do anywhere in the world.  Some of them have impressive highlight reels, too, and I love to bask in their light, cheer them on, knowing that if they can do it, I can do it, too, someday.

If I decide that's what I want to do, that is.  I used to want to shine my light brightly from center stage.

Now I'm happier sitting in the backyard, soaking up the sun, sipping coffee and exploring the tender places of the mind.

It's pleasant back here.  Come on in. 

Repost - How To Attend a Blogging Conference in 44 Easy Steps. AND info about the Serenity Suite!

NOTE: I'm resurrecting this old chestnut from last year, because - for better or for worse, all of this still applies...   

I have been to a grand total of four blogging conferences now - this one makes my fifth- and I'm starting to notice a trend in my pre-conference weirdness preparations.  For any of you attending your first conference, I thought it may be helpful to share them with you:

THREE WEEKS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Make a well organized and lucid checklist of everything to bring to the conference.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THREE WEEKS BEFORE AND TWO DAYS BEFORE:

1) Lose checklist.

TWO DAYS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Gaze thoughtfully into mirror and notice self for the first time since the last conference.
2) Frantically call every hairdresser in town to schedule an appointment to foil hair.
3) Buy expensive wrinkle cream.
4) Open cosmetic travel bag and find exact same cream purchased for last conference.
5) Stare into closet with glazed expression. Search for perfect outfit to present sleek, put-together look.
6) Realize you do not own one single "outfit".
7) Drag unhappy children to trendy boutique.  Pay too much for sexy top.
8) Hang sexy top next to last year's sexy top, which was never worn because it didn't feel like you.
9) Remember you are recovering people-pleaser and tell self people will have to accept you for who you are.  You are YOU.  You are authentic.
10) Notice wardrobe contains only black pants, black Capris, black shorts and earth tone tops. Wonder if you really have to be that authentic.
11) Apply wrinkle cream before bed.

ONE DAY BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Wake up and generously apply wrinkle cream.
2) Stare into closet with glazed expression.
3) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
4) Drag unhappy kids back to boutique to purchase trendy, uncomfortable shoes to draw attention away from black pants and earth tone tops.
5) Engage in pre-flying obsessive/compulsive thinking.
6) Kiss the kids goodnight and attempt to ignore thoughts of a fiery plane crash death.
7) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
8) Try on pointy uncomfortable shoes.
9) Fall down.
10) Stay up too late writing a blog post about going to blogging conferences.
11) Apply wrinkle cream.

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Open empty suitcase.
2) Remember all the laundry is dirty.
3) Start laundry.
4) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
5) Take clean clothes from dryer and stuff into suitcase.
6) Pack enough shoes for a one month stay.
7) Ponder luggage weight limit.  Shrug and leave everything in suitcase.
8) Apply wrinkle cream generously.
9) Get into bed and lie with eyes open until alarm goes off.

DAY OF CONFERENCE:

1) Apply wrinkle cream.
2) Fend off flying jitters with thoughts of how much more talented/funny/popular everyone else is than you.
3) Totter off plane in trendy, uncomfortable shoes.
4) Purchase band-aids for blisters.
5) Enter hotel wearing mask of bored self-confidence.
6) Flee to room and apply wrinkle cream.
7) Stare with glazed expression at clothes in suitcase.
8) Try on sexy top.
9) Discard sexy top and pointy shoes.
10) Wear black pants, earth tone top and sensible shoes.
11) Take deep breath.
12) Enter conference with mask of bored self-confidence.
13) See a friend.
14) Realize it is all going to be okay.

ALSO - I want to remind everyone about the Serenity Suite - the brainchild of Maggie and Heather and a sanctuary for anyone looking for a quiet, safe, relaxing respite from the craziness of the conference.  As always, the Suite will be an alcohol-free zone, and I will be spending a LOT of time there, (along with several other hosts who are all talented, lovely engaging women); please come by and say hi if you're going to be at BlogHer12.  I'll tweet when I'm there!

Don't be shy about stopping by - whether this is your first conference or your millionth.. the Serenity Suite is a great place to kick back, relax and make a new friend or two.

Daily Reprieve - Working on Panic and Anxiety

I've been thinking a lot about my dual diseases - alcoholism and cancer. For lack of better terminology, I'll say I'm a survivor of both, at the moment.

The anxiety I have been grappling with since my last post is reminiscent of early sobriety in so many ways, not just the physical symptoms (racing heart, difficulty breathing, racing thoughts, feelings of impending doom) but the emotional symptoms as well.

As an alcoholic, especially one in early recovery, I fought these bad feelings hard.  I'm sober now, this should be gone, I shouldn't feel this way, maybe I'll always feel this way, what if this never goes away.  The harder I fought the feelings, the louder and more powerful they became.

It has been the same with the cancer anxiety.  I keep thinking I shouldn't be feeling this way, I'm in remission, I should be on-my-knees-grateful all the time.  I'm pushing and pushing at the panic and anxiety, feeling guilty that I have them at all, because for the moment I'm okay.

Because I'm hard-headed, stubborn and like to think my way out of problems, it took me falling off a cliff in a heap before I applied the same things I did in early sobriety to my current problem with anxiety/panic.  I finally picked up the phone and asked for help.  I talked to other cancer survivors.  I joined a cancer patient/survivor group.  I joined a yoga class for cancer survivors.  I'm doing a lot of reading of stories of others that have gone before me.  And I'm going to see a professional oncology psychiatrist as well.

When I met with the cancer survivor counselor, he helped me see how I was trying to push the fear away, how hard I was working to avert my eyes.

"I'm afraid of a cancer support group," I told him.  "It makes me feel afraid to think of sitting in a circle with other women whose cancer has come back, or who aren't going to survive their disease, because that could be me some day."

"Yes, it could," he replied.  "You have a choice.  You can keep averting your eyes, keep pushing it away, or you can face it.  Embrace the fear.  Lean into it. And give yourself some time.  It can take a year or more to get over the daily fear of the cancer returning, and you HAVE to talk about it."

This is when the bell went off, when I thought about early recovery and how hard I pushed to keep the fear at bay, to push away thoughts of a drink, to think I should just be better already.  And how it wasn't until I opened my stubborn mouth and told a roomful of strangers who totally understood how I felt, that I started to get better.


Anxiety and fear are my biggest triggers.  Thoughts of a drink pop into my head with regularity these days.  I find myself thinking "I HATE this. I should be beyond this. Why am I thinking this way?"

Of course I'm thinking about a drink.  I'm an alcoholic who doesn't like emotional pain, and I'd much, much rather go around it than sit through it or talk about it.  I am prideful and want to be strong enough to manage it on my own.   I finally realized that the core of my suffering lies in this prideful unwillingness to face fear.

So I'm talking more.  I'm trying to pick up the phone and call people when I feel itchy, but I'm still terrible at that (I don't want to interrupt them, what if they tell me they can't talk, I don't want to impose) but I'm working on it.   I'm meditating again.  This morning I got up at 5:30am (the house is so peaceful, beautiful and quiet at this hour) and meditated for half an hour - just watched my thoughts go by.  What I observed were a lot of thoughts about my treatment, how scary it was, and I realized I have to give my mind space to process these things, but without fear or judgement.

I'm reading a lot of Buddhist literature, learning about meditation techniques and accepting, even embracing fear and panic.

It's all helping, little by little, but I know it will take time.  As I was walking the dog this morning I realized it took months for the thoughts to calm when I got sober, for me to accept, and it's going to take months again.  And that I can fight it, or accept it.  And get help.

As I meditated this morning it also occurred to me that with alcoholism, in recovery we get a daily reprieve.  All I have to do is not drink, for one day, and I get a reprieve from my disease.  I started thinking about being a cancer survivor the same way - as a daily reprieve.  I'm here now. I'm healthy now. If I can stay in today, like I learned to do in recovery, and be grateful for my daily reprieve from cancer, maybe the peace of mind and gratitude will replace the fear with time.

It's hard to admit vulnerability.  I write about it all the time, and it does help me feel better, but I realize that writing about it isn't enough.  I have to put into practice these private actions - like counseling, yoga, support groups and intimate conversations with trusted friends.

For a while I thought I had to stop the blog; that it was too ego-driven, too externally focused, and that it was endangering my peace of mind.   But now I'm not so sure, although I'm still open to the idea that maybe the blog is too much and I'll have to give it a rest at some point.

I think, though, that if I can maintain a balance between the writing and the private, soulful things I do to care for myself - put my own oxygen mask on first - that the two can coexist.

I guess we'll see.

Trip Around The Sun - My Blog's Birthday

It's my blog's birthday.

She's four.

Instead of engaging in my usual platitudes of how this blog has brought so much joy and goodness into my world, because you've heard them all before, I'm going to play you a song.  And I want you to listen to it, okay?  Because, if you're like me, you think 'ugh, song' and click away. But this is a good one.  One of the all time bests.

I do want to say - because I can't say it enough and I mean it from the bottom of my soul - THANK YOU.  Thank you so all of you who read, comment, email me, facebook me and send your words of encouragement.  Without exaggeration, I don't know how I would have gotten through the past seven months without you.   You rock.

And thanks for supporting my shop.  After my last post I was so overwhelmed by the response, by people posting on the faeebook and twitter pages, that I cried.  And then the orders came pouring in.  THANK YOU.

Now sit back, relax and enjoy one of the wisest, truest songs ever written.  It was written by Al Anderson, so he deserves the credit (the You Tube video of him singing it isn't as good - but if you want to hear it sung by the original master, you can find it there).

This version is sung by Jimmy Buffett and Martina McBride, and they're pretty cool, too.  This song has brought me through many dark days.  I think I had it on loop my first year of sobriety. when what I wanted more than anything was to have a year sober. And again these past seven months, when the perspective this song brings helped me so much.

Trip Around The Sun:

Looking Back, Looking Forward

The third anniversary of this blog is coming up, which seems surreal to me.

I find myself without a lot to talk about these days, so I went back through the archives to see what on earth I used to prattle on about.  When I first started writing I would post up to twenty-two times a month!?!?

Sometimes I'd do a little post about the kids, or making jewelry, but mostly I talked about recovery.  And, for the past six months, I talked about cancer.

Which leaves me at a bit of a cross-roads.  I said last fall I wasn't going to talk about my recovery anymore, my cancer is in remission, and my kids are getting too old to talk about (especially Greta) too much on here anymore.

But I LOVE writing here. Being able to write my feelings down while I was going through cancer was life saving for me.  Being able to talk about recovery has been equally rewarding at a time when I needed it.

So what now?

As I read back through the posts, I realized there was a time where I felt a lot of existential angst/guilt about my parenting, whether or not to work in a real job, if I was spending too much/too little time with them, etc.   Now that they are both in school, it seems funny that I worried so much about that.  I was lucky enough to work from home and that should have been the end of that.

But my brain liked to worry about things, so that's what it worried about, I guess.

And then my Dad died suddenly, and I got cancer, and worrying about such things seems very, very silly.

I also chronicled my weight loss journey of 65 lbs here.  Now I'm down another 35 lbs -I started at the top of a healthy weight for a woman my height (5', 10") according to the BMI scale, and now I'm at the bottom (actually a little below).  I am trying to put ON weight. I don't know anyone on this planet that wants to read about that without wanting to punch the author.

So, again, what now?

Perhaps I should re-think my stance on not writing about my recovery here.  I made that choice because I found myself in a position of helping a lot of people, doling out LOTS of advice, sponsoring people and always reaching out my hand, but nobody was minding my store. I became the primary advice-giver in my life, and it got me in trouble.  Someday, maybe, I'll write about that.  Probably in a book, but not here.

I suppose I could write about recovery more generally, because it's still the most important thing in my life.  I couldn't go to recovery meetings for months, because I was too sick, so I'm back and I'm going to three or four a week.  It feels really good.  To be back in that sacred circle where we exchange our truths, and share our experience, strength and hope.  I've missed it, and my spirit is much inflated by being back in the fold.

Maybe you can help me. Are there things you want me to write about?  Even if it has to do with recovery, that's okay.  I don't want to be one of those egotistical prattle-on-about-my-life bloggers.  I want to have something substantial to say now and again.  If I can't find things I think are meaningful to write about, I will likely close up shop and focus my attention more on Crying Out Now (which desperately needs attention).

Or do you want to hear about my kids?  Do you want posts about daily life?  Would you read those?  REALLY?  I'm hoping I don't have a crisis for a while (I'm due a calm period, thank you very much), so if I'm not writing about daily life, I don't know that there's anything left?

Help!

Endings and Beginnings

I love words.

For me they are little doors; behind each one lies a precious truth, or perhaps a secret. Words give us a glimpse into the soul.

Words are powerful.  

We can use them as weapons of hate, to fuel jealousy, deceit, fear or resentment.  One simple word spoken or written in anger can have devastating effects.

Words can also be healing; a salve to ease pain, fear, isolation or torment.  Words bring community, support and comfort.

I feel like I have lost my way with words. 

I am not going to write about my recovery on this blog anymore.  Somewhere along the way, my awareness of audience led me astray.  I lost the ability to write purely, experientially, authentically, because my ego got caught up in delivering a specific message of hope or inspiration.

I lost sight of what was really going on, deep inside of me.

This is dangerous, because it pulls me away from the private, anonymous, soulful work I need to do on myself. I was looking outwards - at the impact my words have on the world - instead of inward, into my soul.  I lost access to my truth.

I stopped writing for writing's sake, and began delivering a message instead.  The urge to post about pain or difficulty with a hopeful flourish was irresistible.  I believed in the hopeful flourish, in the message, and I was always truthful on this blog, but I found out - in the hardest way - that the danger lies in the things I wasn't saying, the truths I wasn't even allowing myself access to. 

Because of this I stopped knowing how to ask for help; I put myself in a position of having my own answers. I substituted this blog for the hard face to face work of recovery, which is done in the grittiness of a circle of strangers at a meeting, or intimately, and privately, with trusted friends.  This work is not meant to be shared publicly because it is impossible, I have learned, for my ego not to be aware of how it will be received.

I still believe - very strongly - in the power of voice and healing in addiction and recovery.  I don't regret the words I have written here.  I believe that addiction thrives in silence, and Crying Out Now - where hundreds of women come share their stories- will continue to break down those walls of silence, stigma and isolation.  The women speaking out are brave, and the community forming there brings compassion and healing.

I don't want to stop writing.  I want to get back to the place where writing enables me to metabolize life in a pure way.  In an observational way.  I don't want to be a message deliverer anymore.  I can't.

Life has thrown me some curve balls lately.  I have some large obstacles to climb mentally, spiritually and physically (health wise).  I am going to need words, writing, to maintain curiosity, hopefulness, and gratitude, and I am going to need the comfort of the community sharing my words brings.  I will also need words to have direct access to my fear, pain and uncertainty.  Not in the context of recovery - mine or anyone else's - but purely and simply just as they are. 

I have been thinking a lot about whether to shut down this blog or not.  I talked to many trusted friends, and received lots of advice.  I prayed over it.  A lot. I'm struggling with the role of Ego in blogging.  It is impossible to divorce Ego from any form of writing, but in the blogging world the instant response received - and the desire to be heard - is addictive, and it can be dangerous. 

I have been thinking about great writers and speakers, like the Dalai Lama, who share their words, emotions and beliefs with the world without being swallowed whole by Ego.  Last night I watched a teaching by the Dalai Lama, and I was amazed at the power of his words, at the healing comfort they brought.  He spoke about Ego, how Ego as better-than, Ego that is used for power or grandstanding, is dangerous and toxic.

But he also said that Ego is necessary to build self-awareness, confidence, self-love and compassion.  In this way Ego is important, he explained, because if we can't have compassion for ourselves, we have no hope of having compassion for others.  Ego, he said, must always, always, be balanced by humility and a genuine love for all beings.

I fell asleep last night with his words ringing in my head, and I had a dream.  In the dream I was at a spiritual retreat, in a open pavilion with swaying palm trees, the sound of ocean surf nearby, surrounded by colorfully dressed women from all over the world.  They were laughing, sharing stories, lifting each other up with words.

One woman glanced my way, saw me cowering in the corner, silent and alone.  She threw open her arms and flashed me a brilliant smile.  "Come," she said.  "Let me hear your story." 

"I'm afraid," I said. 

"If you are afraid then you are not speaking from here," she said, pointing a slim finger at my heart.  "If you speak from the heart there is no reason to be afraid.  But you must get this out of the way," she said, pointing to my mind. 

"My child," she whispered, placing her hands on either side of my face, "words are a gift.  We heal with words.  We sing with words.  We praise God with words.  What is life but a wonderful story?"

Speaking Out - Redbook Article about Mothers, Drinking and the Power of Sharing

In the October issue of Redbook Magazine there is an article about moms, drinking and the power of sharing our stories. 

I was interviewed for the article, (click here to view it online) along with my sober sisters Heather of The Extraordinary-Ordinary and Corinne of Trains, Tutus and Teatime.  Another amazing woman, Deb, is also featured in the article.  She isn't sober, and she has the grace and courage to talk openly about how she feels about her drinking.  Her story will resonate with so many women who have nagging thoughts about alcohol, but who don't feel safe talking about it. Deb is helping break down the walls of silence and fear, and I am so grateful to call her my friend.

Sometimes I forget to remember that these incredible women wouldn't be in my life if I wasn't sober; their friendship is as essential to me as oxygen. 

Although I've been writing about my addiction and recovery for a couple of years now, sometimes my own words make me cringe, and I wonder: why in the world am I putting myself out there like that?  There have been many times I held my finger nervously over the 'publish' button, contemplating whether I was sharing too much, aching to alter the story to make it prettier, or to make myself less vulnerable.

Especially in the early days of blogging, I would click 'send to publish' quickly, before I could overthink things too much and change my mind.  Then I'd sit nervously by and peer at the comments with trepidation, bracing myself for judgment, condemnation or ignorance.

They never came.

What came instead were words of support and encouragement, and email after email from women saying "your story is exactly like mine", or "I see myself in your words".

A pivotal moment in my own recovery happened early on, as I sat reluctantly in the back row of one of my first recovery meetings.  I hated being there, hated myself.  I thought I was irretrievably broken and weak.  I honestly believed I was a terrible person, that I was alone with my horrible thoughts and deeds.

An attractive woman, a mother, about my age approached the podium and introduced herself as an alcoholic.  She didn't look the part, in my mind's eye.  She can't be nearly as bad as me, I thought.  The words that flowed from her mouth that night told my story.  We were the same; we thought the same, felt the same, did the same things while we were drinking.  She was two years sober, and she was glowing.

In that moment, I realized I was not alone. That I was surrounded by people who understood, who had walked the path before me, who could help. Even more staggering to me was that my story moved them, too, helped them stay on the path of sobriety.  I didn't think I had anything to offer anybody, and here we were, leaning on each other in comraderie and kinship.

So when I put my words out there, tell my truths here in this space or in a magazine article, I remember that feeling from that night. That bolt of electricity and hope that shot through my body:  I am not alone.  There are many women who struggle in silence, who aren't about to walk into a recovery meeting - not yet, and maybe not ever - and who would never know they weren't alone if it wasn't for the stories shared online, or in magazines, or memoirs. In these safe places they can see themselves in the words, and realize there is hope.  There are thousands upon thousands of women exactly like them who have fought back addiction and won, a day at a time.

Writing my truths here has brought me great healing, too, and the unbelievable people I have met on this path - people like Corinne, Heather, Deb and so many more - are one of the biggest gifts I have received in recovery.  The emails I get from women who are struggling - who gulp back the fear and type out their truths - they help me so much.  I am humbled by their bravery, inspired by their honesty and grace.

Addiction is a disease of silence and isolation.  If you're reading this and you are struggling in silence and shame, please know you are not alone. Find someone safe - reach out and connect with someone who understands.  Try a recovery meeting, join a recovery chat room, or send an email to a sober blogger whose story touches you.  We understand.

The response from the Redbook article is amazing; I have received many emails from women who saw themselves in our stories, and are taking that first brave step of reaching out and telling their truth - some of them for the first time ever.

A big thank you to Redbook for tackling this sensitive, controversial topic - the more we talk openly about this, the more we can heal. 

And an extra special thank you to Nancy Ramsey, author of the article, for her professionalism, talent and kindness. 

The Sign

I'm zooming down the snowy hill; the icy wind makes my eyes water. My body feels young, loose, and I'm laughing with delight.  I hit a bump, the sled is airborne and I throw my arms out.  I'm flying.

Poke. Poke. 

I peel one eye open and see two big pools of brown.  I ache to close my eyes again, lose myself in the dream.

"How do you spell cwazy fish, Momma?"   Finn is mere inches from my face, holding a Sharpie marker and a tee shirt and looking at me expectantly.

I swing my legs out of bed; after the youthful feeling in my dream the creaking in my middle aged joints surprsies me.

There is a bite to the air this morning, the first tendrils of autum, and I pull a sweatshirt over my head as I pad downstairs.  The kids trail after me like ducklings.

"If Sharpies smell so strong to us, can you imagine how they smell to a dog?"  Greta says; she is fully dressed for school already.  Her fear of missing the bus looms large over each morning; she is ready to go at 7:30, even though the bus doesn't arrive until 8:45.

"Or a fly? Flies and dogs have a sense of smell that's like a thousand times greater than ours."

Bleary eyed, I pour milk into two bowls of cereal while the kids orbit around me like little planets.  Their non-stop chatter tugs at my half-awake brain.

"How do you spell Rhododendren?" Greta wants to know, holding a notebook she made of pressed leaves. She is meticulously labeling each page.

"I'm not wearing undahweah," says Finn, "and the dog had anothah accident in the playwoom." 

"Hon? Can you pick up my shirts?" my husband pokes his head into the room, shaving cream covers half his face.  "By 9:30?"

"What about Dandelion? How do you spell that? And Hydrangea?"

"Dis is my cwazy fish!" Finn chirps proudly from the kitchen table. My brain finally registers that he is drawing on the tee shirt with the Sharpie.

"It's 8:25, Momma!  We need to get out for the bus soon!"

With a flurry the kids shrug on backpacks, tie shoes, and jostle out to the end of the driveway to wait for the bus. It won't come for at least ten minutes, but Greta needs to be out there by 8:30 or she panics. 

The sun peeks through the early morning fog, and I turn my face up to soak in its warmth.   The kids spin and laugh, whacking each other with their backpacks.  Inside the house the dog barks insistently, like she does every morning, unhappy that she is left out of the fun.

I smile to myself, lost in thought. Each morning is a carbon copy of the last, and for some reason today this thought comforts me. 

An unfamiliar blue pick-up truck pulls up at the end of our driveway, and the kids turn and look at me with wide eyes.

A stocky woman clambors out of the truck, wielding some kind of large tool.  

"I'm here to put up your sign!" she calls.  "How about right here?"

As she hammers the For Sale sign into our front yard, my stomach gives a flip-flop of nervous anticipation. 

Change, I think, as the warm embrace of familiarity drops away.

~~~~

This post is part of a link-up called Just Write, the brain-child of Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary.  We're free writing about moments in a day, describing snippets of time, without clarifying or explaining what we want to speak about in the post.  We're just writing about an experience - pure and simple - finding the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Want to participate?  Click here to learn more and here join in.

How To Prepare for A Blogging Conference In 44 Easy Steps

In less than 48 hours I'm going to BlogHer in San Diego. 

I have been to a grand total of three blogging conferences now - this one makes my fourth - and I'm starting to notice a trend in my pre-conference weirdness preparations.  For any of you attending your first conference, I thought it may be helpful to share them with you:

THREE WEEKS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Make a well organized and lucid checklist of everything to bring to the conference.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THREE WEEKS BEFORE AND TWO DAYS BEFORE:

1) Lose checklist.

TWO DAYS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Gaze thoughtfully into mirror and notice self for the first time since the last conference.
2) Frantically call every hairdresser in town to schedule an appointment to foil hair.  
3) Buy expensive wrinkle cream.
4) Open cosmetic travel bag and find exact same cream purchased for last conference.
5) Stare into closet with glazed expression. Search for perfect outfit to present sleek, put-together look.
6) Realize you do not own one single "outfit". 
7) Drag unhappy children to trendy boutique.  Pay too much for sexy top. 
8) Hang sexy top next to last year's sexy top, which was never worn because it didn't feel like you.
9) Remember you are recovering people-pleaser and tell self people will have to accept you for who you are.  You are YOU.  You are authentic.
10) Notice wardrobe contains only black pants, black Capris, black shorts and earth tone tops. Wonder if you really have to be that authentic.
11) Apply wrinkle cream before bed.

ONE DAY BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Wake up and generously apply wrinkle cream.
2) Stare into closet with glazed expression.
3) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
4) Drag unhappy kids back to boutique to purchase trendy, uncomfortable shoes to draw attention away from black pants and earth tone tops.
5) Engage in pre-flying obsessive/compulsive thinking.
6) Kiss the kids goodnight and attempt to ignore thoughts of a fiery plane crash death.
7) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
8) Try on pointy uncomfortable shoes.
9) Fall down.
10) Stay up too late writing a blog post about going to blogging conferences.
11) Apply wrinkle cream.

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Open empty suitcase.
2) Remember all the laundry is dirty. 
3) Start laundry. 
4) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
5) Take clean clothes from dryer and stuff into suitcase.
6) Pack enough shoes for a one month stay.
7) Ponder luggage weight limit.  Shrug and leave everything in suitcase.
8) Apply wrinkle cream generously.
9) Get into bed and lie with eyes open until alarm goes off.

DAY OF CONFERENCE:

1) Apply wrinkle cream.
2) Fend off flying jitters with thoughts of how much more talented/funny/popular everyone else is than you.
3) Totter off plane in trendy, uncomfortable shoes.
4) Purchase band-aids for blisters.
5) Enter hotel wearing mask of bored self-confidence.
6) Flee to room and apply wrinkle cream.
7) Stare with glazed expression at clothes in suitcase.
8) Try on sexy top. 
9) Discard sexy top and pointy shoes.
10) Wear black pants, earth tone top and sensible shoes.
11) Take deep breath.
12) Enter conference with mask of bored self-confidence.
13) See a friend.
14) Realize it is all going to be okay. 

Little Light of Mine

I am amazed at the power of voice.

Think about your darkest secret, the thing that makes you most ashamed.  Now imagine yourself at a podium, speaking about it to a room full of people.  Thousands of people.  Your tiny voice reaching tens of thousands of ears. 

Or think about your proudest moment, something you have overcome or accomplished in your life, and imagine the same podium, the same thousands of eyes and ears fixed on you.

My most shameful secrets and my proudest moments are one and the same.  As time goes on, I'm beginning to understand how our darkest times, our biggest obstacles, can lead to our greatest triumphs.

What I love about blogging is that you don't need validation, experience or approval to put your voice out into the world.  You don't need a publisher, or an established audience, or an agent.  All you need is a computer screen and your voice.

When I started this blog, I was lighting a tiny flame, a little tea light, and setting it adrift on the vast ocean.  I knew the odds that anyone would notice it were slim.  But I also knew that if one person was drawn to my little light, my voice, that would be enough.

Writing openly about my addiction and recovery is the scariest and most rewarding thing I have ever done. I could never have imagined, in my darkest hour, full of secrets and shame, that one day I would be broadcasting my pain to the world.   More importantly, though, I could never have imagined the healing, empathy and peace sharing my voice would bring. 

Every single time I have opened my heart, used the power of voice to reach out, gifts have come my way.  People emerge from the dark unknown to share their own experience, strength and hope, tell their own stories of pain and recovery.  Together our little lights spark a mighty flame, creating a roaring fire for all the world to see.

The light chases away the shame, you see; it drives the shadows of fear, isolation and guilt away.  They can't take purchase, because together we are a force to be reckoned with; a megaphone of hope. 

I am humbled to be an honoree for the BlogHer Voices of the Year for my post, Look.   I didn't know I was nominated, that a good friend had submitted this post for consideration.  When I got the email yesterday saying it was one of 20 honorees in the Life category, I cried tears of gratitude.  And joy.  I get itchy talking about recognition or accomplishment. More often than not I'm on the other side of this, wishing it was my voice that had been recognized, feeling that little twinge of jealousy that I wasn't picked.  And I know, too, that it is all arbitrary; that there are thousands - tens of thousands - amazing voices out there that deserve to be honored, and my voice is just one tiny drop in a sea of talent.

I'm talking about it here, though, because that post is about the worst, most shameful, day of my life.  It happened in 2007, about two months before I finally got sober.  As I lay curled on a stretcher in an emergency room, desperate, sick and forgotten, I wished that I would finally slip away. I couldn't imagine life without alcohol, and I certainly couldn't imagine I would ever overcome the shame and fear I felt that day.

And here I am, only four years later, looking back on that horrible day and feeling gratitude in my heart.  Not because it is recognized as a Voice of the Year, but because I know, now, about the power of voice.  I was stuck, alone, and I had clamped my heart and my mouth shut, determined that nobody could ever, ever know the depths of my worthlessness, my weaknesses, my shame. 

All that changed when I let go of pride and fear, opened my mouth, shared my pain and asked for help.  The power of voice saved my life.

If you are riddled with fear and shame, if your dark secrets are eroding your spirit, your sanity and your soul, there is hope.  Use your voice, light your own little tea light, open your heart.  It doesn't have to be at a podium, or on a blog; the size of the audience doesn't matter.   One is enough. 

Start telling your truth, ask for help.  I promise you that your fears of discovery, of being shunned or discarded, are only one piece of a broader picture, an unknown future that is full of grace and hope. 

Find one safe person, and start talking.

Use your voice.  Your little light could start a mighty flame.