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

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.

The Middle of Me

I'm standing stock still amid throngs of people.   The DJ's music is blasting, women clad head to toe in sparkles whirl around me, laughing, clutching their drinks.

On the dance floor hundreds of people gyrate to the pulsing music.  I'm at Sparklecorn, a notoriously raucous party held on the second night of BlogHer.

I don't know how this celebration of frivolity has become a place where I experience epiphanies, but it has.  Last year at Sparklecorn I danced sober for the first time. 

This year my good friend and sober running-mate, Heather, is back in the room tending to her adorable two month old daughter, Elsie.  Heather's need to be with Elsie has kicked me out from under the safe protection of her wing, forced me to spread my own wings and try to fly solo.

I debated for a long time if I should even go to Sparklecorn.   I have always been someone who likes to be in the middle of everything, and I was puzzled that I didn't feel more of a compulsion to go.  My fear was that I would feel left out, other-than, sober and serious amongst all the party-goers.  I wasn't in a particularly fun mood.  I was tired from the time change, and my feet hurt from walking all day.  On some ancient level it felt cowardly not to try, so I squared my shoulders, donned a sparkly top, and set out for the party. 

I didn't know if I would be brave enough to enter the party alone, but thankfully I ran into some friends on the way over, and we walked in together. 

Somehow I become separated from my friends.  I find myself standing alone, on the outskirts of the dance floor, clutching my club soda and cranberry.

Here I am, experiencing one of my worst fears, I think.   I'm alone, sober, in a room full of people who seem so fluid, so relaxed, so lubricated. 

I wait for the fear, for that stomach-churning feeling that I am no longer fun, that I don't fit anymore, because I can't drink.

It doesn't come.

I sip my drink and observe the room, bopping my head slightly to the music.  Everywhere I look I see people I know, good bloggy friends, waving their arms over their heads and gyrating to the beat. 

Good for them, I think.  I'm so glad they are letting off steam, having fun. 

I realize I have a choice - if I want to be included, all I have to do was step into the circle and start dancing.  Nobody is shunning me, nobody is deliberately leaving me out. 

I'm tired, I think.  I want to go back to the room. 

I realize, with some surprise, that I really do want to go back to the room. I'm not running away.  I'm not fearful of missing out on something.  I don't need to be in the middle of anything.

I'm my own middle, I think with a smile.

This seems like such a small thing, but for me it is huge.  For so many years I searched  for the center of me outside of myself - in throngs of dancing people, from the validation I thought I received from other people accepting me, inviting me in.  My ticket to entry was a drink, or two, or five.  Alcohol greased the skids, propelled me into confidence, manufactured a feeling of belonging. 

I set down my drink and wander out of the party, onto an outdoor balcony under the stars.   I close my eyes and breathe in the cool night air.  

I am free, I think.  I am free of the self-centered fear of rejection. 

I don't have that nose-pressed-against-the-glass feeling anymore.  I don't know when it went away, but I am so very grateful it is gone.

Without looking back, the two of us - my middle and me - head back to the room.

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. 

Where I've Been, And Where I'm Going To Be

I can't believe I have only posted four times in July - less than half as often as I usually post.

It's not that I don't have a lot going on, or that there is nothing to say.  It's more like I'm taking an existential pause, keeping things as simple as I can, taking each day carefully and cautiously.

My Dad died six weeks ago.  It feels like a long time ago and the blink of an eye at the same time.

I'm still grieving, of course, but with each passing day my grief shifts, evolves.   Little by little I'm accepting that he is gone.  The sudden nature of his death makes it hard for my brain to process that he isn't here anymore.  It's not denial, exactly, because I know he is gone.  It's just that my brain can't handle keeping that information in the forefront of my brain for very long.   It is as if my brain thinks he is simply away somewhere, and that someday soon this business of him being gone will be over.  Every now and then it hits me - the full force of my grief - and I have to breathe deep, cry a little, or call a friend to talk about how I feel.

It is as if my brain is feeding me grief bits at a time - smaller, more manageable bites that I can process little by little.

I think this is healthy.  I think it's normal.  But I have never been through this before.  I'm just taking it as it comes, feeling my feelings, sitting in the discomfort and pain, and absorbing the moments of gratitude and peace as best I can.

One of the things I am most grateful for right now is the gift of creativity.   I spend hours making jewelry - elaborate beaded patterns that transfix my mind, my spirit, and usher me away from sad, from grief.  

Here are some of my favorites (click on the links below to view in my Etsy shop):

 

Shimmering Silver Squares Bracelet

Turquoise Dream Bracelet

Lovely Lavender Faux Sea Glass Bracelet

I made a bracelet to remind me to keep it in the day, that each morning is a chance to start over, that no matter how bad I feel in any given moment, that it will pass.  I wear it to remind me to keep it in the day, carry gratitude in my heart and not lose myself to fear:



Just For Today Bracelet



~~~~

On another note, I'll be heading to BlogHer '11 in San Diego on Wednesday.  I will be spending a lot of time in the Serenity Suite (click on the link to hear more about it from my good friend Heather), so if you're going to BlogHer please do come by and say hello.

Onward.

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.

New Worlds. And A Question

One of the things I love the most about the blogging is that it expands my world.   Surfing through other peoples' blogs, opening myself up to new thoughts and perspectives, is one of my favorite things to do.

I met a lot of people at BlogHer, and I wish I could have spent more time talking with each of them.  One of the biggest gifts of attending was walking away with new connections.

On my blogroll (to the right) I link to my daily reads.   I wanted to take a minute to introduce you to some new people - talented, warm, lovely women.   Take a moment to check them out, you won't be disappointed:

Alex, from Late Enough
Sarah and Jen from Momalom
Laura from The Hollywood Housewife
Jessica from The Mom Creative
Cheryl from Mommypants
Lora from A Fever (words) and The Urbanity (photos)
Christine from Coffees and Commutes
Kim from Prairie Mama
Kristen from Rage Against the Minivan
Esther from She Posts
Kalisa from The One In Heels
Lisa from Smacksy
Ann from Ann's Rants
Lindsey from A Design So Vast

And I have a question - what are your favorite blogs, and why?    I'm always looking for new worlds to explore.

The Next Right Thing - Tutus for Tanner

When I stepped off the train platform after six days away, Greta rushed up to me and encircled her arms around my waist.   She knew all about my trip, all the new things I was doing in New York.

The first thing she said to me was, "Mom?  Did you meet Tanner?"

Two months before I left, I had told her the story of Tanner, the eight year old boy who is dying of Duchenne's Muscular Dystrophy.   I explained that I was participating in the Tutus for Tanner 5k to raise money to help Tanner get his biggest wish:  to be able to live at home as his disease progresses to the point where he needs full time care.

Tanner's Aunt, Catherine, who blogs over at Her Bad Mother, explains his situation: 

"Tanner’s Biggest Wish is not really a wish that he has made for himself, because, well, he doesn’t know that it’s something he should wish for. Nor should he ever know, because this wish – that he be able to live out the time that he has left at home – is one that shouldn’t even fall into the category of wishes. That he faces not being able to live the rest of his very short life at home, with his mom and his family, surrounded by love, is something that just should not be.

But it is. My sister is a single working mom, and as Tanner grows bigger while his muscles continue to deteriorate, she is less and less able to do simple things like lift him in and out of bed and monitor him throughout the night and although she has some caregiving assistance, she is, soon, going to need that assistance around the clock, and her home is simply not equipped for that. And if it remains unequipped for that, Tanner will have to leave home, to be cared for somewhere where all of his physical needs can be met. Somewhere without his mom. And I just can’t let that happen.

Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy, the disease that is killing Tanner, won’t be cured in his lifetime. But it might be cured in another boy’s lifetime. And there are other children out there who live their lives on an abbreviated clock, and other families who wrestle with the hourglass, counting the sands of time as they fall too quickly, and maybe – maybe, maybe, I hope – sharing Tanner’s story, and fighting for this cause, will serve some good."

When Heather told me about the 5k run I jumped at the chance.  At that point, I didn't know Tanner's story, but I loved the idea of running through Central Park in a Tutu.    After we spoke, I went to Catherine's blog and learned Tanner's story.

Heather and I stumbled into the lobby of the hotel at 6:30am last Friday morning, adorned in our Tutus.

The first thing I saw, which I wasn't expecting, was Tanner smiling away in his wheelchair, surrounded by women and men in Tutus, like a ring of Fairy Godparents.    His eyes were shining with joy.   

As we set off on the 5k, I thought about what this trip to New York was like for Tanner and his family.   How they were experiencing all of this for the first, and possibly last, time together.    I thought about what it would be like to know you are dying, to know you are losing a child.   How each moment together is precious, and how hard it is to remember that until you are faced with hardship like Tanner's.

As we walked through the early morning mist in Central Park, I saw the world with new eyes.   What would it be like, experiencing all these amazing new things, meeting all these incredible new people, all the while knowing your days were numbered?     Underneath the sadness - because it is incredibly sad - I felt an undercurrent of joy, of hope.    Bearing witness to people coming together to help an eight year old boy achieve his biggest wish was, in a word, beautiful.  

So when Greta asked me if I met Tanner, I told her yes.    "Is he going to be okay?"  she wanted to know.  

"He has a disease that can't be cured," I said, and her face fell.  "But we are all working together to help, to raise money and awareness, so that maybe someday in the future another child with this disease will have the right medicine."

She thought a moment.  "I'm glad you did the Tutu run, Mom," she said.   "I'm glad you helped.  It's important."

It is important.    Tanner's story is one of hope.    He is lit from within, this eight year old boy.   I take a piece of his light with me, now.    I try to look at the world through his eyes, to hang on to moments like gems.  

Catherine again:

"So here’s the thing: my husband and I are going to renovate her basement so that she can get a government-funded live-in care aide (well, my husband is, because he knows how to do that stuff. I’ll lift tools and carry drywall and yell words of encouragement and hold a Flip camera and blog. While wearing a tutu,* of course.) And we’ll get whomever we can to help, and it will be like a barn-raising, except not a barn but a basement, and it will make it possible, this thing that is so necessary, this thing that breaks my heart into a million pieces to even say – that Tanner die at home. But we can’t do it alone – this kind of thing is expensive – and so we need some support. We can put all of the time and energy that we have toward this, but we also need to fund materials and expert help for those things that need expert help (plumbing, electrics) and do all the things that a very, very modest and limited version of Extreme Home Makeover would do (yes, I e-mailed them; no, I did not hear back), well enough that they’d pass a Holmes Inspection, and that requires money, and so I am asking (which is really, really hard, but that’s another, possibly irrelevant, story). I’m asking.

You can read the whole story, with links to more information, here. 

My heart soars to see that Tanner's Biggest Wish will come true - so far over $29,000 has been raised - 117% of their original goal.  Every amount over their goal will go towards the Muscular Dystrophy Canada and Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy.   Let's find a cure.  You can donate through the widget below:





If you can't donate, that's okay.   Please do the next best thing: take a piece of Tanner's light with you, too.   Slow down, take it all in.    Hug your family.   Cherish the moments you have together in this crazy life, because they are gems.

Coming Out of The Dark

Addiction lives in the dark.

It thrives in the isolation of feeling broken, damaged, less-than.   It takes root in the fear of hoarding a deep, dark secret, and blooms in the terror of that secret being discovered.   Not simply because people would know you struggle with alcohol, but because people would know you struggle with life.

Alcohol created a barrier between me and my emotions, an impenetrable force field.    It made it so I didn't have to feel the bad stuff; I could drink and manufacture the feelings I wanted.    Until, of course, I passed that maudlin point of no return, where emotions went on a steroidal rampage.   I could think about a long dead pet or an ex-boyfriend and sob on someone's shoulder for hours, thinking I was making a real connection.    I didn't know the difference between real pain and alcohol induced pain any more than I understood real joy, or real peace.

I didn't know the first thing about how to make a genuine connection.  Unless, of course, I had been drinking.    Then everyone was my best friend.    When I wasn't drinking I didn't know how to be vulnerable, scared, joyous or silly - I just didn't know how to lose control like that.   Cocooned by a self-centered fear of rejection, I stayed with safer emotions, like friendly, happy, funny or pleased.

Even in sobriety, my greatest gift and biggest challenge has been learning how to be real.   To allow vulnerability, silliness, fear, joy or anger to bubble to the surface unedited.

~~~~~~~

I first noticed Heather when I read her blog post admitting she was an alcoholic, and that she was getting sober.   Her honesty and bravery struck me immediately, as did her gorgeous writing.   I commented on her blog, she commented on mine, and a tiny pilot light of kinship flared to life.   We began emailing, sharing our struggles and fears.      Her courage inspired me, her friendship gave me warmth.   We spoke on the phone, whispering into the late hours of the night.    By the time we agreed to room together at BlogHer in New York, I felt like I had known her for years.  

Getting to know Heather led me to Maggie and Corinne, two more brave women coming forward, stepping into the light and away from the darkness and isolation of addiction.   

I couldn't wait to meet them in person at BlogHer, to finally wrap my arms around these women who shared this sobriety journey with me.

~~~~

As I waited in the hotel room for Heather to arrive, I didn't feel nervous.   I didn't wonder whether or not she'd like me, or if we'd get along.     When she stepped out of the cab, smiling gratefully to finally be at her destination, we hugged.   It felt like seeing an old friend after years apart.   We immediatly fell into an easy rapport, chatting, joking, laughing.    Oh, the laughing.

We had late-night talks that swerved effortlessly from the profound to the ridiculous.   Deep belly laughs, snorting and gasping like a couple of tween girls.   I haven't laughed like that for years.    A no-holds-barred giggling, tears streaming down my face.   What we were laughing about doesn't matter, wouldn't make sense if I tried to explain it.     It was silliness of the highest order.   I felt something I thought I may have lost forever: the ability to lose myself in laughter.       

I remember a lot of laughing when I was drinking, a lurching, self-amused type of humor that required everyone around me to be equally lubricated.    A desperate attention-seeking kind of laughter, usually at my own expense and never as funny as I thought.  

And there we were, sober, buckled over, giggling.  Happy.  Free.

~~~~

It was inevitable, I suppose.   The crazy pace of New York, the newness of it all, the networking and small talking finally caught up to me on Friday night.    Rushing from event to event with barely time to eat had left me shaky, hungry and exhausted.   It was close to 9pm and I was spent.   Heather, Corinne and I found ourselves standing in the main Ballroom, throbbing music and flashing lights pulsing around us, the line at the bar twelve deep as party-goers lined up to lubricate themselves.

It was all too much, and we fled.

We ended up in the Serenity Suite, a room set up for people who needed to get away from the crazy pace.   Maggie was already there, and we all sat together in the darkened room.    

It came upon me like a tidal wave - all the emotions I usually keep carefully tucked away came flooding out.   I started to cry, and I couldn't stop.    Sitting there with these women who were strangers 12 months ago, virtual friends for the past 6 months, I felt kinship and understanding because we know.  We know what the darkness and isolation of addiction feels like.  We know how hard it is to navigate the perilous waters of life sober, unanesthetized.    We know what it's like to feel, unedited, all the roiling emotions brought to the surface by the small talk, the parties, the constantly being on, the drinking.

What a gift it was, to let go.   To fall into the comforting arms of my sober sisters and sob.   I'm coming up on three years sober, and I hadn't cried in front of anyone except my husband.   Not even at a meeting.   That urge to control myself, to hold back, always stopped me.    Until then.   

I could look into their eyes and see love and understanding.  I was safe.  It felt like coming home.

~~~~

Saturday night I found myself in the same ballroom, with the same pulsing music and flashing lights.   I froze in place, felt the panic monkey stirring in my brain.   Maggie quietly tapped my shoulder and said, "let's take a walk around for a bit."

Twenty minutes later she's pulling me out onto the dance floor.   I wanted to politely decline.   I wanted to explain that I hadn't danced sober, that I wasn't sure I could.   But I didn't.    Kayne West's Gold Digger came on, and I began shuffling my feet, looking around nervously.    I saw Maggie's big grin, clutching her club soda and cranberry in one hand and her purse in the other, bopping her head to the music.  I noticed that we were actually part of a little circle of dancers, and that one of them was Kalisa, a sober blogger I had met only a couple of days ago, and she was dancing her heart out.    A little further away I caught the eye of another sober blogger, who remains anonymous, and she winked at me.  

I felt the fear and doubt drop away like a stone. 

Before I knew it I was dancing - not just your average shuffle your feet back and forth and move your head a little dancing - but an all-out, arm flinging, hair tossing, pelvic sort of dancing.   I was shouting out the lyrics, grinding down to the floor, laughing.     

I danced. 

~~~~

Addiction lives in the dark.  

Together we bring the light.   The light of the truth, the gift of being real, the blessing of being free.   We bring laughter, companionship and understanding.    We break down the wall of lies, of denial and fear.   Together, my sober sisters, we can do anything.

I drank for years trying to find a fraction of the joy, peace and kinship I have found in sobriety.   It was right here all the time, I just had to let go, surrender, to find it.

The Company You Keep

This is not the post I set out to write.

I'm home from NYC - a whirlwind trip full of new experiences, capped off by attending BlogHer, an annual conference of bloggers, most of them women.   I went there knowing about five out of approximately 3,000 attendees.  

I spent the past four days carefully crafting a post about my impressions of the conference.   Ordinarily I write and publish a post in a few hours.  This time, though, I sat down each night to review and edit, honing my observations and opinions down to a fine point.

I re-read it again last night, and it hit me:   I got it wrong.   

There was a lot about the conference that overwhelmed me.   I knew there would be networking, pressing of flesh and small talk.   What I didn't expect was the cut-throat social hierarchy, the emphasis on who do you know instead of what do you write about.     The blogosphere contains its own version of abbreviated celebrity, popular bloggers with huge followings who moved through the conference like royalty.   

It is darkly alluring, this form of celebrity.    The gravitational pull around the popular bloggers was impossible to ignore.     It all made me feel very small.  

Arriving at the conference I didn't care about how many Twitter followers I had or how many people read my blog.    I naively thought that most bloggers write to build a community, to be change agents for something they are passionate about.     By the end of the first day, though, as I stood on the periphery and observed, it seemed like one giant popularity contest.     I morphed into the tall, awkward 13 year old girl who was fearful of being picked last for the kickball team.   

It occurred to me, then, that writers write to be read.   Many bloggers, it appeared, write to be seen.

It was enough to make a girl want to fold up shop.   I felt so tiny, so insignificant.   I introduced myself to people and watched the realization dawn in their eyes that they don't know me, I'm not influential, I can't do anything to further their popularity.   They would politely hand me their blogging card and move on.

It made me angry.

So I spent four days writing and re-writing a post that highlighted the worst of it all - the dark underbelly of blogging.    It was a good post, if I do say so myself.   A poignant essay about the worst of the worst.   I was drawn to negativity like a moth to a flame, letting my anger and resentment towards these people consume me.

It's not even close to the real story, though.

I realized last night that I'm leaving BlogHer not chock full of resentment and anger, but full of validation and love.    The connections I made with the people I knew going in took root and blossomed.   I made new connections with people whose talent astounds me, whose grounded approach to blogging inspires me.   I leave there with a renewed sense of purpose, of hope.

Away from all the craziness, all the networking, I realize I know why I'm here.    I don't want to be the bright spotlight in the center of it all.     I want to be a warm campfire, a quiet place for people to find each other, share joys and struggles, swap stories.   A place of comfort, laughter and peace.

I believe people create their own light, their own warmth.    It comes from within, not from the admiration of thousands.   
 
Insecurity and negativity were tethered to me, like an overflowing bag of garbage.    I was hauling the heavy bag around resentfully, unable to let it go.     Last night, thinking through everything, I mentally dropped the tether, turned my back and walked away.    

There will be more to come on the trip:  the 5k for Tutus for Tanner, the hysterical laughter, the power of being in the middle of the crazy with my sober sisters, how we propped each other up, cheered each other on, what it felt like to be at this conference sober.

How meeting my friends in person felt like coming home.

For now, though, I'm turning these memories over and over in my head, savoring each and every one of them.    I'm grateful - so, so grateful - to have met these amazing, strong, inspiring women.    And to call them friends.

Tutus for Tanner 5k in Central Park

5k Tutus for Tanner with Heather

Maggie and Heather

With Corinne at Rockefeller Center

Heather, Corinne and Me

Firsts

Okay, I'll admit it:  I'm nervous.

Not curl-up-in-a-ball nervous, but an excited jittery kind of nervous.   Tomorrow morning I'm leaving for NYC on what I'm now thinking of as my Get-Ellie-Out-Of-Her-Comfort-Zone Adventure.

What started earlier this year as trip to attend BlogHer, an annual conference of bloggesses, has ballooned into a whirlwind of firsts for me.

Attending the conference is a big deal for me.     I'm not a big traveler, and getting myself safely to New York, in a hotel, rooming with three other fabulous bloggers, already feels like a lot.    I have run-of-the-mill anxiety:  will they like me?   will I make an idiot out of myself?  what if I find myself standing in a corner with nobody to talk to?     Add to this the uncertainty of navigating these small-talky waters sober, and I find myself wringing my hands a bit, wondering how it will all go.

Then my amazing friend Heather (and one of my roommates) got me to sign on to the BlogHer 5k.  In a Tutu.     I'm not a runner.   I have been working out, so I'm not in the worst shape of my life, but running is something I try to avoid when possible.    The lure of tackling this challenge was too great, though.   I'll be almost 50 lbs lighter by then, it's for a good cause, and it's a terrific ice breaker.   I'm willing to bet I'll never get the opportunity to run through Central Park in a Tutu again.    So I'm going for it.

Then last week I was contacted by a local friend who told me about a discussion hosted by Liberty Mutual's Responsibility Project, one of BlogHer's sponsors, who is filming a Roundtable conversation about Celebrity Hero Worship.    I was intrigued, and had a 'casting call' phone conversation with one of the producers, and ultimately was chosen to be on the panel.   I don't know much more about it than that - other than I now have to be in Brooklyn, NY very early in the morning on Wednesday, do my own hair and make-up, and dress "business casual".    I'm just jumping in with both feet, not knowing all that much about it, because it's a topic that interests me and it seems like a great experience.   

And then the fabulous Heather told me about an opportunity to attend a Broadway show on Wednesday night.  Of course I can't say no to that.   Again - I don't have most of the details, other than I'll be seeing West Side Story (how cool is that?) and meeting other amazing bloggers (man, these women are talented.  See? I'm feeling insecure).

So instead of going to NYC Thursday, I'm leaving tomorrow morning, staying by myself at a hotel tomorrow night, going to Brooklyn first thing on Wednesday to be filmed in this roundtable discussion, going to a Broadway Show Wednesday night, heading to the hotel for the conference on Thursday, running a 5k in a Tutu on Friday morning, and then attending the conference for two days.

Whew.

And where are my children throughout all this?  They are happily attending day camp and staying with my parents in NH.   I dropped them off this morning for their first day of camp - oh, they were so brave - before heading back home to get ready.     I drove away from them with a lump in my throat.   I won't see them again until Sunday.  That's six days from now.  I know they are happy, I know they will have fun, but it was hard to leave them.  

I could see in Greta's face this morning that she was nervous.   She kept asking me how many days she would be there, when she would see me again, whether or not she would know any kids there (other than her cousin, who is there with her).     As I kissed her good-bye, I saw tears brimming in her eyes.   She swallowed hard, flashed me a smile, choked "see you Sunday!", and dashed into the camp's activity room before either of us could cry.   Finn was nervous, too, but he said this about it:  "I know I'll feel shy at first, but after a couple of hours I'll get used to it."

If they can be brave, I can be brave.   I don't know how it will all unfold, of course, but I know I'm in for an adventure of a lifetime.

So if you're in New York, in central park, around 6:45am on Friday morning, look for this:

I'll be the one jogging by, muttering to myself  "In a couple of hours I'll get used to it...."

P.S. - Thanks to my Mom, who made the Tutu.   She just waltzes into a fabric store, grabs a little of this and a little of that, and comes up with the best ideas, right on the spot.  Maybe I got my spontaneity from her?   It's perfect:

P.P.S - As you can see from this post, I'm in need of some Serenity.    Thankfully, the Serenity Suite is open for business throughout the conference, just for this purpose.   If you're going to BlogHer and you want to kick up your heels, relax, get away from the crazy, stop on by Room 4307.     I'll be here these times, if you want to come prop a girl up:

Friday: 2:30- 3pm (with Heather)

           6:30 -7pm (with Kalisa)

           9pm (with Heather)

Saturday:  6-7pm (with Heather)

                8:30pm (with Christine)

As you can see from the schedule Heather has figured out that I'm going to be following her around like a tall, awkward shadow for most of BlogHer.    She doesn't know it yet, but I'll probably stalk her on Thursday night, too, so if you're there early and want to come meet some cool people, the Serenity Suite will be open on Thursday as well.

Tutus for Tanner - Let's Do Some Good, People

I may have mentioned, in passing, at some point, that I'm running a 5k in August while I'm at the BlogHer conference.

Did I mention I'm doing it in a Tutu?

My good friend Heather got me all excited about running a 5k the morning before the conference.   She had all kinds of very sound arguments - it's for a good cause, raises money and awareness for Muscular Dystrophy, it's a great way to top off your weight loss, it will be a great ice breaker to run with the other bloggers.

I'm not a runner.   I'll run if you chase me with an axe, but my preferred method of exercise is to walk as quickly as I can, uphill, on a treadmill.  Or outside, where I do that ridiculous marching-duck-walk kind of thing - walking as fast I can without actually running.   I really hate running.

But I'm not one to say no to, well, anything.    It's something I'm working on, this "NO" thing.    Besides, it does sound like fun, and who knows?   I'll weigh about 35 lbs less than I did four months ago, so maybe I won't need to hire an axe murderer to get my butt in gear.

After she got my consent, she had one more tidbit to add.   "Oh, yeah," she said, like she just remembered.   "And you have to wear a Tutu."

That, my friends, totally sealed the deal for me.   I'm fairly sure I will not get the opportunity to run down the middle of the street in New York wearing a Tutu again in my lifetime.   That is, if I manage to stay sober.

But - really, truly, in all seriousness - it IS for a good cause.    To learn more about Tanner, go to Her Bad Mother's blog and read all about him.      He is an 8 year old boy with a huge heart and even more courage.   I can't do it justice here, so please go find out more.

I don't even know when the phenomenon of wearing Tutus to honor Tanner started - but I know it happens all over the country, raising money and awareness to fight Muscular Dystrophy.

One of my all time favorite bad-ass bloggers, Black Hockey Jesus, is putting his own unique spin on the 5k in New York.    Anyone who reads BHJ knows that he wouldn't just run this race any old way.    

He is going to run the 5k as many times as he can, over and over, and he's accepting pledges of any denomination on his blog - each donatation is good toward one 5k.   For example, if you donate $5 and he runs the 5k four times, your donation would be $20.  

He's inspired me in my weight loss journey, BHJ has, although he isn't one to want the recognition or praise.   If you don't know about the 365 BHJ Fitness Regime already, I'll explain it to you.   It's quite simple - on New Year's Day this year he decided he'd had enough of his gut hanging over his belt and decided to run at least a mile every single day this year.   Did I mention he likes to do things in his own unique way?

Since New Year's day he has run way more than a mile a day - although it started out that way - in any weather, at any time of day, no matter what.     He's lost a boatload of weight, but that was only kind of the point, I think.   He writes about liking to push his limits, challenge himself, find out what he's made of.

I understand that.

Now, I'm not crazy enough to run at ALL, let alone every day, but I admired his determination and spirit.   He's collected quite a few fellow runners along the way, kind of like a virtual Forrest Gump.   If Forrest Gump swore a lot.   As far as I'm concerned they're all nuts, but as I munched on my Doritos and read about his fitness journey, I was inspired despite myself.    

So BHJ running the 5k as many times as he can to raise money for Tutus for Tanner is the perfect fit - crazy, but with heart.   Because he has a heart, even though you have to sift through a lot of  F-bombs to find it.    It's a big part of why I love his blog so much.   He pushes limits, does things with language that boggle my mind, says so many things that ping around in my head and my heart but I don't have the guts to say them.   And he helps people.   He pisses off as many people as he helps, but by my way of thinking the people he pisses off are allergic to the truth.

All the blabbering on is leading to my point - please donate what you can to raise money for this worthy cause.  If you don't want to pledge on his blog, I've put the widget on the right hand side of my blog where you can make a one-time donation. Any amount helps.

I'm not going to try and raise money myself - it will be a miracle if I finish the damn race.   But I'll be out there in a Tutu and a smile.    And I'll post pictures, I think.  

And BHJ will be wearing a Tutu as well.  A black one.   Because that is so, like, edgy.

I'll Have Some Serenity To Go, Please

As you can see from that last post, I'm practically brimming over with serenity.

Speaking of serenity, I want to announce the brain-child of Maggie and Heather - The Serenity Suite at BlogHer '10.  

This is my first trip to BlogHer, an annual blogging conference for women, but Maggie and Heather are veterans, and they were talking a while back about all the carrying-on and boondoggle nonsense (yes, it's a word - it's an old fashioned way of saying people will be drinking their faces off) that goes on there.

Several conversations and more brainstorming sessions later, and the Serenity Suite was born.   

It's a safe, calm, boondoggle-free place for people to go to get away from the craziness of the conference.    A bunch of us serene bloggers have signed up to host shifts there, so there will always be someone there to welcome a weary conference goer with quiet conversation, a hug, or a pleasant cup of tea or coffee.      We'll have more information about it as we get closer to the conference, but if you're going to BlogHer, please be sure to stop by and say hello!

Heather describes it better than I did over at her blog, so click here for more details, including the list of the wonderful people who will be hosting the Suite.  We're always looking for more people to help out, too, so if you want to host (it would amount to an hour or two per day and no more) let me know!

And a quick follow-up from yesterday's post:  today is a new day, and a fresh perspective.  Finn is feeling better, and my car will be fixed by noon today.    Yesterday afternoon I decided the day was a wash, lost myself in a trashy murder mystery and went to bed early.    I woke today, rested and refreshed, with a shiny new outlook, and thoughts of a drink or a fistful of chips seem very far away.  

One day at a time, right?

Thanks to everyone for your supportive comments and emails.  

You guys rock.