Underbelly

I have a scar on my belly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hallway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, I do.


 

On Simplicity, Serenity and Struggle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have the power to let go.  

Pirouette On A Tightrope: On Addiction and Depression

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shards

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

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

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

She waits.

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

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

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

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

With a sheepish grin, I nod.   "Yup."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly," she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With whoever I am becoming.

The Other Side of Fear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so am I.

Still Behind The Veil

Two years ago I found the lump in my neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Middle School Heart

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

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

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

"Is it too much?" she asks.

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

"It's not enough, is it?"

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

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

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

Change.

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

I yell, "It looks great!"

"SHHHHHHH!" she replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiles.  "So it's not just me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

 If she can do it, I can do it, too.

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

Through The Looking Glass

I have always loved the number four.  I'm not sure why - my own little touch of OCD, I guess.

Any time I'm picking a number - for anything - I choose four, a number that ends in four or a multiple of four.  A seat number in an airplane or setting my alarm clock (7:04am), for example.  It simply HAS to involve the number four. 

It's been going on since I was a kid - as young as nine or ten - my own little attempt at feeling some semblance of control over my increasingly complicated world.

Tomorrow I turn 44 on the 4th.  That's a lot of fours.

Last night the kids broke out our home movie collection and we sat on the couch and watched our lives from when the kids were babies, toddlers and into their preschool years.

I watched with a mixture of joy and sadness - wistful for their chubby-cheeked youth, for what looks on the screen as a simpler time, but I know differently.

There is Finn in the tub when he was just learning to talk - I'm holding the camera in one hand and bantering with him about his rubber ducky.  He laughs, flashing his two little bottom teeth, just poking through.  "UH-OH," he says, as he plunges the yellow duck under water. "Ducky needs HEWLP"  It looks for all the world like an ideal scene of mother and child bonding. 

But I know that perched behind me on the edge of the sink is a wine glass.  Bath time back then was never done without my liquid assistant.  The days felt interminably long, boring. 

My gut churns as I watch Greta, pigtailed and adorable, coloring and chattering on about her picture.  I'm laughing behind the camera, egging her on, zooming in on her brow knit together in concentration.  I remember what I was thinking, back then - that I was recording for posterity that I was a good mother, not a drunk.  Not an alcoholic.  I was desperate to prove to myself and anyone watching that I was loving, engaged.

I watch the images flickering on the screen and my heart aches.  Shame burns somewhere deep inside, at the very root of me.

How could I not see, I wonder, how blessed I was.

Another disc, fast forward about a year.  Finn is almost two and Greta is almost five.  It's April of 2007.  Steve is filming what looks like an adorable family breakfast scene; Finn happily smearing oatmeal in his hair, perched in his high chair, Greta next to him, prattling on as usual.  Then Steve swings the camera my way, and I'm leaning on the counter, looking weary and bloated. 

"There's Momma," he says.  "She was partying last night, weren't you Momma?"

I cast the camera an irritated, sheepish look.  "Yes," I whisper.  "Stop filming me, you're making me uncomfortable."

I look into my own eyes and want to scream at my visage STOP.  Stop what you're doing, stop sliding down into your own destruction!!!
A mere two months later and I'm conspicuously missing from the videos.  It's summer of 2007, and the kids are at the zoo, the Museum of Science.  My sister-in-law balances Finn on her hip and laughs as the cousins squeal in delight at otters rollicking in their tank. 

I'm not there.  I am in rehab.

A little later, and there we are again, happy kids with a sober Mom.  Finn is closer to four now, Greta is almost seven.  I no longer need the camera lens to prove that I'm present in my life and theirs.  I am slender again, bright eyed and happy. 

But that knot in my stomach as I watch doesn't loosen, and I still want to scream at my image:  be grateful for all you have - ahead of you are some rough waters.  You are going to lose your Dad. You are going to get cancer. 

PAY ATTENTION, DAMMIT.

But that's the thing, isn't it?  Paying attention?  Recognizing how fleeting moments are, even the ones that feel like they last forever?  The long, ordinary days that feel like duplicates of yesterday?  The constant-ness of parenting, laundry, cooking meals, all the mundane rituals that wear you down?

I'm not particularly afraid of getting older, even though the idea of being forty-four seems incredible to me; I feel about twenty eight mentally. 

What jerks me to attention is the idea that life zips by, right under my nose.  The days roll into one another, virtually indistinguishable.  Every now and then something jars me out of my day-to-day existence - something wonderful or something scary - but for the most part forty-four years flew by. 

Why is it so much easier to lose myself to fear of what may be lurking around the corner?  It is far easier to have faith in fear, instead of just plain faith.

Back when I was a drinking Mom, I felt like I was watching my world through dirty glass - there, but not there.  I felt one click removed from everything - my family, myself.  I numbed out the uncertainty with one more glass of chardonnay.  And then one more.

Being sober is scarier - the uncertainty is pointier, right up in my face.  I don't hide behind liquid anesthesia anymore, and I feel scared more than I ever did when I was drinking.

But here's the thing:  the dirty glass is gone, too.  Even fear is a real emotion.   I am present in my life.

Looking at the un-sober me on the screen, faking normalcy, wishing with all my heart I was someone else - anyone else - because I didn't know how to be, I feel sorry for her, but I realize she is a necessary part of who I will become.  I mentally wrap my arms around her and forgive her. 

Maybe that's the trick to paying attention.  Constantly loving who we are today, forgiving the person we were yesterday - the one that didn't know what was coming down the road, or who made poor choices. 

Or maybe now we're struggling, and we look back at our former selves and think: man, she had it all together. What happened to me?

Life happened.  Life happens.  The only moment we have is this one, the one right under our noses.

This person right now, today, on this last day of being a forty-three year old wife and mother of two -  she only knows what she knows right now, in this moment.  Regretting the past, or worrying about the future brings back the dirty glass, the one that prevents her from Paying Attention.

It would be nice to believe all those fours - 44 on the 4th - will keep me safe, make for a great year.  But the thing is?  It's a great year already. 

No matter what.

How To Do Anything.

My daughter is learning to write. Not just I-can-spell-things-correctly, but really write.

Her awesome 4th grade teacher has them writing all the time. About anything and everything. He knows that the more you do something, the more you'll drop self-doubt and fear.

She padded up to me a few nights about with an essay she had written.  I knew she was proud of it, otherwise she would never have shown me, but she downplayed it when she asked me to read it, saying, "this isn't very good, I don't think."

On her face eagerness and trepidation fought it out.

I've learned not to be overly enthusiastic in my responses to practically-no-win situations like these. If I chirp, "It's amazing! Perfect! There's nothing not to like about this!"  her chin trembles and she says - every time - "you don't like it."

If my response is too moderate - not enough chirp - the trembling chin appears and she says "you don't like it."

So I read it with my own share of trepidation, not about whether or not it's good, but how to help this kid believe in herself, to understand that it's all about the effort, not the outcome.

I gave her a smile and said, "I really like it. Especially the beginning. It really made me want to read more." 

She beamed.  "That's called an engaging beginning. It's important because it's the first thing someone reads so you don't want it to be boring."

"Sometimes I write my beginnings at the end, after I've finished the rest of it," I said.  "Or I'll just write a boring beginning and make it more interesting after I've finished it."

"You can re-write your beginnings?" she asked, her eyes wide. "That's cool!"

~~~~~

I've re-written so many of my beginnings. In recovery, people often say "you get to write your own endings", and I do love that concept, but to me it's more like re-writing your beginning.  Because we don't have that much control over our endings, although we love to feel like we do.  It's the beginnings that we have control over.

Putting a foot forward onto a new path is terrifying. We squint our eyes, desperately trying to see over the horizon.  It's much easier to venture onto a brand new path if we know we'll be successful.  Or safe.  If we are certain there will be laughter and joy and peace along the way.  We believe there will be hardships - bandits hiding in the bushes, mountains to climb, potholes to fall in. It's easy to believe in the obstacles. Where we struggle is with the unavoidable uncertainty that we don't know where it will lead.  All we really know is what the path looks like right under our feet. 

Here's the truth: there will be both. There will be bandits, and potholes and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Maybe some of these obstacles won't be surmountable, and then - gulp - you'll have to start on yet another new path to get where it is you're heading.  There will be smooth, pebbled paths, beautiful vistas and rest stops, too.  That's life.

Sobriety is like this. So is fighting cancer. Or losing weight. So is starting a new business venture or sending a kid off to the first day of school. Or college. Or anywhere.  We want to run ahead, smoothing out the path, shooing away bandits and hacking easy paths around mountains.

We want someone to guarantee our own success, too. No matter how old we are. We want our own path-smoother.

We don't need a path-smoother, though.  We need a walking buddy, or a stranger on the path who hands us water or offers a place to rest.  Those people can be found in the most unexpected of places, too, if we're looking.

Cheerleaders are great to have - all "sis-boom-bah!" and "you can do it!", but we also need a few navigators, people who have walked the path before, or who aren't afraid to tell us we've lost our way.

I've been lost many times. I've doubted myself more than I haven't.  It was in the stumbling that I figured out that I wasn't on the road meant for me.

More than a few people have said to me when I am talking to them about losing weight, or getting sober, or starting a new venture or fighting cancer, 'that's easy for you to say, you did it already."

But I haven't.  I'm just doing.  To lose weight I had to be overweight. To be sober I had to be drunk. To start a business I had to have nothing. To beat cancer I had to have cancer.  I'll gain weight, my sobriety will wobble (or fall), my businesses fail, my cancer will lie in wait, or go away.  I don't control any of that. I haven't written the endings to any of these things, yet.  Just lots and lots of beginnings.

Wherever you are in life, whatever you are facing - sobriety? weight loss? a move? a divorce? starting (or ending) a business venture? - the path is long and twisty, and your choices are few: lie down and give up or take the first step.

That first step? That's you, writing your own beginning.

Routine Scan is an Oxymoron

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My fellow fighters.

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

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

On Living.

This story touched me so much I have to share it here.

Please watch this video when you have 25 minutes to focus, listen and absorb.  And you may want to have tissues at the ready.

But this kid? He's going to teach you about living, not dying.

"Try and make people happy.  Maybe you have to learn it with time, maybe you have to learn it the hard way, but as long as you learn it, you're going to make the world a better place".

~Zach Zobiech 

As as person in long term recovery from cancer and alcoholism, I have my share of days where I shake my fists at the heavens and ask, "why me?"

Those are not good days. I have zero control over the fact that I have these two life long diagnoses.  Sometimes I get filled with fear, anger and regret.  I wallow in self-pity.  

And when I get this way?  I'm more miserable.  Little by little, I'm learning to lean into the hardships - actually, more than that - I'm learning to embrace them.  I learn so much more from my difficulties.  Without them, I wouldn't have most of the blessings I have in my life today.  And I have so many blessings. 

I'm at a point now where I can say that I'm grateful for cancer. I'm grateful for alcoholism.  Because without these experiences I would forget to treasure life.  

Of course this doesn't mean I treasure every second of every day.  I don't think anyone can do that, can they?  But instead of playing the no-winner game of "what if?" or "why me?", when I'm able to lean into emotional pain, to wrap my arms around the Suffering Me and tell her I love her ... then I'm not owned by pain (thank you, Courtney, for our conversation last night that gave me this beautiful image).  It simply becomes part of what makes me, well, me.

Thank you, Zach Zobiech, for your light, your life and your example.  

You live on and on and on in all the people you touched.  Including me.

Zombie Cells and An Old Soul

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

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

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

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

GULP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Lisa

When someone is close to death it is easy to canonize them.

Nobody is a saint, of course. We're all flawed humans, full of fault lines.  It has always been my opinion, though, that the light shines brightest through the cracks.

She is dying.

I don't even want to type those words, still clinging to the fruitless hope that maybe it's not true.

But it is, and if there is one thing she has taught me, it's that acceptance brings peace. 

People always talk about "fighting" cancer, and I struggle with that imagery.  Cancer isn't a fight, not really.  A fight implies that there is an eventual winner. If the cancer wins in the end, does that mean the person lost?

I don't think so.

Cancer doesn't really end, ever. Even those in remission for years - decades, even - are never able to put cancer completely behind them.  Every ache, pain or twinge brings you right back to the precipice. Every doctor's appointment is a stark reminder that you are irrevocably different, now, permanently flagged as more endangered than your average patient.

The irony of being a patient doesn't escape me.  So much about cancer is about patience.  You wait for appointments. You wait for test results. Even in remission, a part of you is always waiting for the cancer to come back.

So what do you do? Fold up in fear?  Sometimes you do.  The only way through is to feel the knife blade of fear, stare it straight in the face and say: I'm moving forward anyway.

She moved forward. She did it with light, grace, humor and determination.  And acceptance. Boatloads of acceptance.

In my cancer support group we find a safe place to raise our fists to the heavens and say I'm so done with this.  We all nod in commiseration, wipe away tears of frustration, and then we move forward.  Together.

What she brought to us was a grounding grace, a notebook stuffed with information about her latest treatment as she stoically kept right on going, one foot in front of the other.  When one chemo stopped working, they tried another. And another. When it spread to her brain they did brain radiation.  When her lungs filled with fluid into the hospital she'd go for another procedure. When her heart weakened, they pulled back on treatment, only to start up again when she grew stronger.

She talked to us about all of this with peaceful determination. It took me a long time to figure out how serious her cancer is because she was so present, so calm.

I wasn't there for the early years after her diagnosis. I'm sure she fell apart at times, raised her fists to the heavens.  By the time I came into the picture, though, what I saw was acceptance. And with that acceptance came peace.

She celebrated her recent 50th birthday for an entire year. She travelled a lot, squeezing trips in between treatments. She laughed - oh, how she laughed.

She didn't teach me a thing about dying.  She taught me about living.   About moving forward no matter what, about accepting the seemingly unacceptable.

She didn't fight.  She simply kept going, no matter what, with acceptance and grace.

She is the bravest warrior I've ever met, and I will carry her light with me, always.

The Sprinter and The Trudger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Scary, But Healing, Truth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cafeteria Girl

I had a public snit fit on Facebook last night.

My finger hovered over "publish comment" for a good 30 seconds before I pressed on it with my eyes closed.  I decided to hit the button, because I didn't think I was the only one who felt this way, and it was embarrassing to admit, but I just had to know what people thought.

Here's what I (wince) said:

I am being ridiculously needy and superficial and immature about this, I know I am, but if I get two comments on a blog post these days it's a lot. I used to get dozens. Am I boring now? Am I asking for too much help with my projects? You can PM me if you want to give feedback that you don't want to put out there in public. It's been going on for a while now, and I have to admit (though I'm embarrassed to do so) that it's making me insecure.

 I have to watch the line of ego, attention seeking and people pleasing really closely, examine my motives for blogging, etc. - because those bugaboos are traps in my sobriety.  I worked hard to get beyond (mostly) what people think, to stay focused on the mission or writing for myself, from the inside, regardless of the response.

Sometimes I do a really good job of that. Other times, like last night?  Not so much.

Of course I received comments empathizing with how I felt, and offering suggestions, like people use FB as ways of giving feedback now, people read but don't comment as much, people read through their Google reader and it's hard to leave comments.  All polite ways to put me in my place:  it's SO not about you, Ellie.

I think I'm overly sensitive these days because of the new endeavors like The Bubble Hour and Shining Strong are SO important, and I'm an alcoholic and instant gratification takes TOO LONG and I want THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD to respond instantly.

That is something I have to watch closely, because in that impatience lies a drink for me. If I'm seeking validation from the outside in (as a friend gently PM'd me last night- you know who you are and thank you) - I'm looking in the wrong place and I'll never be satisfied.

But sometimes? I still feel like that girl holding her tray in the cafeteria and looking around for a place to sit without looking like she's looking around for a place to sit.  I'm human.

I do believe in the mission of Shining Strong, The Bubble Hour and Crying Out Now from the bottom of my heart - and that is driven from the inside out. It's in my DNA, because it's how my parents raised me.  So I take comfort in that, and try to forgive myself for my occasional snit-fits.  The response has been amazing, and I'm SO grateful to all of you who have liked my page(s) and left testimonials and sent me encouraging words.

Sometimes? This is what it's like dealing with an addict.  We can never get enough.

Last night I meditated and prayed on this, and at the end my heart felt so full.  I have enough.  I am enough. And it will be what it will be.  I was all brave talk a few posts ago about being okay with trying and failing, but not being okay with not trying.  And I feel in my heart that this is true.

I just have to keep an eye out for those bugaboos, and I have to plunk my cafeteria tray down wherever I damn well please and not be scared of acceptance.

On a logistical note?  If you want to be sure you get all the updates from Facebook (where I think most people hear about posts) for Crying Out Now, One Crafty Mother, The Bubble Hour or Shining Strong it's not enough to "like" the page anymore.  I found this out last night - you also have to go to each page and look for the "tool" icon (little wheel - next to the "Likes" box) and select "Add to Interests".  Then you'll get all the updates, if you want to.  Thanks, Facebook, for making things so complicated and making me have to come make more self-serving comments that make me itchy.

Bottom line, I guess, is that we never really shake Cafeteria Girl, do we?  But we can keep moving bravely forward, tell our truth, empathize with each other instead of being embarrassed about our truths and stick together.

You guys are all at my lunch table, and I thank you for it.  Truly.

The Real Gifts of Christmas

This time last year I had just started chemo and radiation, and I probably would have been more scared if I knew what was coming, but I didn't, and that was a blessing. I ate and I ate and I ate because I knew that was coming to an end, and all in all it was a great Christmas.

I think.

I don't remember much.  Clearly I was in some kind of shock.  But there are pictures of us all smiling, so it must have been good.

There were Christmases I didn't remember because I drank too much, unable to entertain or enjoy life without a glass of liquid courage.

I am a sober woman now, and don't need alcohol to enjoy the holidays.

This Christmas I'm taking it slow and easy, enjoying every moment I can, trying not to get too stressed about work, or presents, or what to feed people, or if my house is perfect, and I'm mostly doing a good job.

My life is good. I am grateful.  I am in remission from cancer, I am sober, and my kids have stars dancing in their eyes.

I take a deep breath in, and let it out slowly.  Out with my breath goes stress, grief and fear.

I breath in deeply again, and in comes peace, joy, acceptance and serenity.

My yoga class instructor always ends with a meditative reading.  I'll share it with you, because it helps me put my heart where it needs to be. I can give these gifts because I am still here, and I am sober. And OH so grateful:

On the first day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of my Undivided Attention.
On the second day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Enthusiasm.
On the third day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Creative Energy.
On the fourth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Simple Seasonal Pleasures.
On the fifth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Tenderness.
On the Sixth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Good Cheer.
On the Seventh day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The Gift of Beauty.
On the Eighth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift Communication.
On the Ninth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Surprise.
On the Tenth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Wonder
On the Eleventh day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Peaceful Surroundings.
On the Twelfth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Joy.

Peace to you and yours this holiday season.

Love,

-Ellie

The Ghosts We Knew ~ Absorbing Tragedy and Finding Gratitude

I'm not talking about it much. I don't even think I'm actively thinking about it much, but I know I'm more profoundly effected by last Friday's CT tragedy than I'm even letting myself understand.

I sat down to do a holiday post - some funny anecdotes, cute things the kids have said, how Finn still fervently believes and I think Greta knows-but-doesn't-want-to-know.

I couldn't write a word. My head was full of all those people facing this season without their kids.

And I felt scared right down to my bones.

I'm personalizing it a little bit, I can't help it.  Losing my Dad last year brings up all sorts of stuff when sudden deaths hit (not to say this is the same - it isn't - but it's one of the "cage rattling" experiences where you realize life turns on a dime).

This time last year I had just started chemo and radiation and I have so much to be grateful for. SO MUCH.

But still, those families in CT won't leave my mind. I'm praying a lot; even when I don't even realize it.

So I didn't set out to do a "sad" post about loss. It just came.  Anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows what I mean about holidays being a little harder. I start imagining the parents of those children and my brain kind of shuts down - SLAM - and then on some odd level I feel unworthy of happiness. Even though I know that's selfish fear talking, I can't help it.

I'm holding my kids extra tight, praying extra hard, wishing I could have assurances that none of us are ever granted.

So tonight I leave you with this song my Mumford & Sons (please listen - it's gorgeous - but you may want a tissue handy) called "The Ghosts We Knew".  Here are the lyrics, and then down below is a widget where you can listen to them as you read.  Send some prayers to those suffering this year. Wallow in all you have, and hug your loved ones tight.

The Ghosts We Knew, by Mumford & Sons:

You saw my pain, washed out in the rain
Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins
But you saw no fault no cracks in my heart
And you knelt beside my hope torn apart
But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view
And we'll live a long life
So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me we'll be alright

So lead me back
Turn south from that place
And close my eyes to my recent disgrace
Cause you know my call
And we'll share my all
And our children come, they will hear me roar
So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me that we'll be alright

But hold me still bury my heart on the cold
And hold me still bury my heart next to yours

So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
And I will hold on with all of my might
Just promise me that we'll be alright

But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view
And we'll live a long life