For Rebekah

It's your smile I think about most.  And that giggle.

I have never met anyone who loved to laugh more than you.  It was infectious.  No matter what my mood, you could pull a reluctant smile from my face, and I soon found my self erupting in laughter.

I want to say thank you.  Thank you for the cozy, late-night chats, the two of us snuggled in our beds. The darkened room and hushed corridors brought something out of us; a pure honesty, shared unvarnished truths.

We'd laugh, you and me, about our twenty-three year age difference.  How could someone so young be so wise, I'd ask.  You would pull a face, stick out your tongue.  See?  You'd say.  I'm just a kid.

But you weren't just a kid.  You were a soul sister, one who had been through so much and still with that smile.  OH, that smile.

Remember the two of us, duffel bags perched on our laps, heading to the next chapter of our journey with wide eyes?  Wondering what would happen next?  You grabbed my hand, as I recall, and said I'm glad I'm going with you. 

One time, as I schlepped up all those stairs to our room, I heard beautiful music playing.  I paused outside our door, listening.  I thought you had speakers for your iPod, and was going to chide you for keeping them secret.  But no, I saw as I opened the door, it was you playing your guitar and singing. Ethereal and melodious, your talent came from someplace deep inside you, someplace God-given. You sat up, startled, when I opened the door, and blushed.  I'm no good, you said and abruptly threw your guitar to the side, nobody is supposed to hear me. 

I stood speechless for a moment, awestruck.  That was beautiful, I said.  Please don't stop.  True to form, you picked up your guitar and belted out some crazy made-up tune, twangy and funny, and I jiggled around the room in my own middle-aged funky way.

Every morning you got up early.  Every morning.  You weren't going to miss that morning meeting for anything. While I mumbled and grumbled from the comfort of my blankets, arguing in favor of an evening meeting, you be-bopped around, humming.  Get up, girl, you'd say.  I got us a ride. 

You made fun of how all my shirts had stripes.  Is that some middle-aged Mom thing? Or just an Ellie thing? you'd grin.

Interesting coming from you of the eleventy-seven-hundred LOVE PINK sweatshirts, I'd grin right back.

Of all the girls in the house, you worked hardest at getting to meetings, chasing your recovery.  The minute you were eligible to get rides from other women in the program, you hit that pay phone and called and called and called until you got to a meeting.  You wanted this, badly.

Keeping a clean room, however, not so much.  You bounced into the kitchen one morning chirping about how you made your bed, how proud I should be.  Later that day, I smiled to myself when I saw the comforter pulled up over a pile of clothes, lumped up like a tiger sleeping under the covers.

I could make you bust out laughing by trying to be all hip (nobody says hip anymore, Ellie, you'd say).  I'd tell you I was feeling some kind of way, and you'd clutch your stomach laughing.  Sorry, you'd say, it just doesn't work coming from you.  I had to ask you want a 'snipe' was, which you found endlessly funny.  For those of you wondering, it's also called a 'put-out'.  Yeah, I had to ask, too.

A favorite memory is the day we were told to put on a skit about the counselors.  You picked one of the more colorful counselors, and groaned.  I can't act, you mumbled.  I'm not funny.  But then, your big entrance came, and you clacked in on borrowed  high heels, reading glasses (mine, of course) perched halfway down your nose and gave everyone a stern look before breaking into a dance and belting out "Because I'm happppyyyyy!" - a dead-on imitation.  I glanced over to the counselor you were portraying and she was wiping tears from her eyes she was laughing so hard.

And a proud moment:  when we put on a recovery version of the Wizard of Oz, and you bravely played your guitar and sang to the acoustic version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow", facing one of your biggest fears:  putting your talent out there for all to see.  You were, of course, amazing.

You made friends everywhere you went. People were drawn to you, to your light.  Always quick with a hug and a smile, you had an eye for someone in pain.   You made people feel special - you made me feel special, the way you'd light up when you saw me.

Even after we were no longer roommates, you encouraged and inspired me.  We'd text inside jokes, check in on each other.  Your bubbly sweetness flowed through your words:

But nothing - NOTHING - compares to the way you loved your child.  Little Madisyn.  The way she would squirm and wiggle and dance when she saw you, then collapse into your arms and stay there for hours, perched on your lap like a queen ruling her subjects.  And just like her Mom, she would giggle and giggle and giggle, for hours.  Her little face so like your own, big eyes staring up at you with unadorned love.

My sweet friend, you left a gaping hole, a dark space devoid of light, when you left.  You are one of the great ones, those rare people I meet who slip into my life like a pair of comfortable slippers.  I owe you a huge debt, sweet girl, for being there for me during such difficult times, for buoying me up when I was sinking, for making me laugh in spite of - and at - myself when I needed it most.

Mere words fall short of how much I love you.  And I always will.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My incredible friend Rebekah died on January 26th of an overdose.  I won't tell her story; it's not mine to tell.  But I know she would want me to say this, because she said it to me over and over:  if you are struggling, please reach out for help.   She posted just those words on her Facebook page only three weeks ago.

It's hard not to stamp our feet and ask why. I get it, because I live in this world.  Addiction is a confounding, baffling and insidious disease.  It doesn't hold back, doesn't discriminate, and it pounces the minute we are weak and alone.  I don't waste time wondering what happened, or why.  I know there isn't any reasoning that will help, or explain.

We have an epidemic in our country.  In my little part of the world - South Shore, Massachusetts - a person dies everyday from an overdose, and countless more are hospitalized, paralyzed, slip into comas.  The more affluent areas are hit the hardest; it starts with pills stolen from medicine cabinets, usually, and it's so addictive it leads people straight to heroin.  And it can be found everywhere.

No child is exempt from its reach: no amount of love, or money, or strict rules can spare a kid from its grip.

What we need is education; parents need to get educated on what is really happening in our middle schools and high schools.  It's so easy to think:  not my kid.  But by the age of 14 or 15 every kid will know someone who has tried opiates or heroin.  They will know where to get it.  They think they are immune from danger, as all teenagers do, and they are vulnerable.

Rebekah's love and light will live on in me and everyone she knew forever.  Her death is so tragic, and it saddens me beyond words, but it fuels my determination to keep on mission, get the word out there that addiction is all around us, and despite all the tragic tales there is so much hope.  But we can't fight something we can't face.

Talk to your kids.  If a friend seems off, ask if they are ok.  If you think someone is struggling with drinking or drugs, they probably are.  Reach out a hand.  If you are struggling yourself, know you aren't alone.

Asking for help isn't weak; it's the strongest thing anyone can do.

The Most Important Post I've Ever Written About Addiction and Recovery

I went to a screening of "The Anonymous People" movie on Saturday.  I met up with nine others, including my best friend and a co-host of The Bubble Hour, Amanda:



Amanda, Ellie, Holly, Jaclyn, Kylee

Here's where I could insert the usual rhetoric of "do they look like alcoholics or drug addicts to you?"

But I'm not.

Because The Anonymous People is at the front end of a movement - a Recovery Advocacy movement - and we're changing the vernacular, the way we talk about addiction.

That is a picture of people in Long Term Recovery.

The shining, smiling people in the photo above all have a chronic, progressive disease that if left untreated will kill us.

"Addiction is a disease without a cure, but WITH A SOLUTION."  (William Cope Moyers)

When someone remarks on the fact that I'm not drinking and I say I'm an alcoholic, even if I quickly add "in recovery" right after, I already know that the word 'alcoholic' has connoted something for them.  We all have a picture of what an alcoholic looks like in our mind's eye.  If I say, however, "I don't drink because I'm in recovery", there is a smile and usually a "good for you!".

Everyone likes a good redemption story, and being in remission from addiction is right up there with being in remission from cancer or other chronic diseases.

Did you notice the word "remission"?  That's because I'll never be cured.  I am a Double Winner - someone with both cancer and alcoholism - and I know that I'll never be fully "cured" of either.  But I also know my chances of staying in remission go up the longer BOTH my diseases are inactive.

Do you have a picture in your mind's eye about what recovery looks like?  Most people don't, because recovery has long been kept in the shadows.  Because of the stigma, most addicts and alcoholics do not speak openly about their recovery.  The media is full of addiction horror stories, but there are very few recovery stories, and we're trying to change that.

Addiction is a disease.  It has been recognized as a disease by the medical community for decades.

While the choice to take a drink or use a drug is voluntary, what happens to my brain vs. a "normal" person's brain is completely different.  If a comparison to cancer or diabetes or other chronic diseases makes you uncomfortable, think of it like an allergy.  My body reacts differently to alcohol, triggering compulsive behaviors (like wanting more) despite any negative consequences that may occur as a result of drinking.

So, people may say, "Just don't drink!!  If you were allergic to peanuts, you'd stay away from peanuts!"

Here is the root of the stigma, I think, because the symptoms of the disease of alcoholism are behavioral.  When someone is stuck in the cycle of addiction, they aren't trying to ruin their lives, or drink more than a normal person.  They are trying to just have one or two, but since their bodies are hard-wired to respond differently, it just isn't possible.  We call it "being born without an 'off' switch".  It can take decades for the disease to take root, so evidence of addiction isn't always readily apparent.

By the time someone realizes there is a problem, they are usually caught in the emotional addiction (if not the physical one) and can't get out on their own.  Their thinking is the problem - it's a brain disease - whether it's denial or the belief that if they try hard enough they can cut back or stop altogether.

An addict can no more think their way out of addiction than a cancer patient can think their way out of cancer.

Would you tell a cancer patient to 'stop' having cancer?  Or a diabetic to start controlling their insulin on their own? 

It sounds like I'm being facetious, but I'm not. 

The "Just Say No" campaign in the eighties - arguably well intentioned- exacerbated the stigma of addiction in very harmful ways.  While the campaign itself did little to curb addiction and addiction related problems in society and the economy, it cemented in the public's eye that it's possible to simply say NO to addiction.   It furthered the belief that addiction is a moral failing or lack of willpower.

Willpower has absolutely nothing to do with addiction. If it did, addiction related issues wouldn't cost the US economy over $360 BILLION per year.  If "just saying no" were enough, those of us suffering at the hands of addiction would have said no a long time ago.

What we need is vast policy change, healthcare reform, enough treatment beds and more reimbursement for treating addiction.  The system is reluctant to "dump" money into rehabilitation, with the mistaken belief that addicts and alcoholics don't get better, or at least most of them don't.  We should be treating the addiction problem in the US like any other health crisis, like cancer and obesity.  But we aren't.  WHY?

Here are some startling facts:

• 63% of Americans are impacted by addiction
• 67% of Americans observe a stigma towards addiction (this includes the addict themselves, who are trying desperately to 'cure' themselves of the problem, thinking they are weak or morally corrupt).
• 74% of addicts/alcoholics are ashamed to talk about addiction in their family
• 80% of people in prison are there due to addiction related issues
• Addiction (alcohol and illegal drugs) cost the US economy $366 BILLION in 2004. Add in prescription drug abuse which has reached EPIDEMIC proportions and that number goes WAY up.
• Over 20 million people struggle with addiction. 
• THERE ARE OVER 23 MILLION PEOPLE IN LONG TERM RECOVERY IN AMERICA ALONE

That last bullet point is the one I want to focus on. Changing the public's perception of addiction by TALKING ABOUT RECOVERY.  Because, everyone, RECOVERY WORKS.  There are more people in recovery from addiction than there are suffering from it.

Here's the rub, though. People don't recover on their own.  Every single recovery program focuses on community - on finding other addicts and alcoholics who understand where you are and can help you navigate life without alcohol or drugs. 

It doesn't matter what program of recovery you follow. Recovery advocacy is for EVERYONE.

You don't have to talk about HOW you recovery, just THAT you recover.

For those of us in programs that have anonymity as a tradition and who are confused about breaking this tradition, this point is KEY.  How you stay sober isn't relevant.  You do not have to be a mouthpiece for an individual program of recovery.  You can talk about recovery without ever mentioning how you do it.  When someone who is suffering asks you how you stay sober (and if you talk about recovery they will ask, I guarantee it), then you are free to share - in the sacredness of a one-on-one (or group) setting - how you do it.

But until the public understands that RECOVERY HAPPENS, people are going to stay stuck in addiction.  People are going to misunderstand what addiction means.  People aren't going to know it is quite literally on every street in America.  Every street has someone stuck in the darkness and isolation of addiction, and every street has someone thriving in recovery.  We have enough coverage of the destruction of addiction.  We sensationalize the stories of celebrities crashing cars, going in and out of rehab.  We condemn the havoc alcoholism and addiction bring to society.

We are sensationalizing the wrong thing. Let's sensationalize recovery.

How? How do we do this?  Not everyone needs to stand on a hilltop and tell the world they are in recovery.  For the same reason lots of people choose not to talk openly about their cancer, diabetes or other chronic illness, because it's personal.  But usually a cancer or diabetes sufferer isn't ashamed (I know there are cases where shame comes into play in these diseases, too).  An addict is almost always ashamed until - if they are lucky - they find their way into a program of recovery and discover they are NOT ALONE and there IS hope.

What we need are healthcare and policy changes that support an addict or alcoholic wanting help.  If you decide you want help - even if you're forced to get help - it's astonishingly hard to get a bed in treatment.  LONG TERM treatment is needed, whether it's inpatient or out, to start on the path to recovery.  Even if you DO find a treatment program, it's usually prohibitively expensive. 

To sum up: today in our society a person stuck in the cycle of addiction has to work their way past the stigma and shame, ask for help (and the statistic above shows that most people don't even want to tell their family) and then FIND that help.  And then pay for it.

The system is BROKEN.

If we channeled money into prevention and treatment that $360 billion would go DOWN.  Parents, this involves you, too. Prescription drug abuse is everywhere. Literally. Kids of every economic and ethnic background are trying these drugs, and for those that have the disease of addiction it is killing them.  They don't just try an Oxy at a "Pharma-Party", they end up mere WEEKS later addicted to heroin.  It's happening in YOUR community. It is not a reflection on your parenting.

It is an epidemic.

If you want to become involved in Recovery Advocacy, there are many places to go.  Google recovery organizations in your state.  Go to Faces and Voices of Recovery and see what they are doing there.  Check out the trailer below for The Anonymous People. 

There are other ways, too.  If you have a family member who is struggling, open your heart and mind and realize they have a disease.  This doesn't excuse behavior.  Consequences of addiction needs to be acknowledge and amends to society and loved ones paid.  I look at it this way:

Addiction is not my fault, but recovery is my responsibility.

Unless the public's perception of alcoholism and addiction changes, and more resources are dedicated to helping addicts as patients who have a disease, we will stay rooted in fear, stigma and reacting to this problem instead of being proactive.

Remember "Silence = Death"?  The gay community recognized that the stigma surrounding their community was going to kill them unless they changed the public's perception of HIV. They came out of the shadows, stared down that stigma, and changed how the public (and policy makers) view HIV.

Addicts and alcoholics are in the same position.  We DIE of this disease.. the one so may of us can't talk about.  It will KILL us.

If you are an alcoholic in recovery, try changing the way you talk openly about your disease.  You are a Person In Recovery.  Even if you only have one day.  Welcome.  You are a miracle.  Be proud.

Please watch this trailer- it's only 3 minutes.  If you are in a position to do so - and I hope in the future many, many more of us will be in that position, SHOUT to everyone you know to watch this. If you have a loved one or friend who struggles or who is in recovery, this effects you, too.  If you pay taxes this effects you. 

Addiction impacts EVERYONE.

Get informed. Get active.  Get well.

Take THAT, Stigma

Something happened this past weekend that would have been utterly unimaginable when I was drinking.

I got together with a group of women (with an awesome visit from a couple of men, too!) who are all members of a fantastic online group called the "BFB" - it stands for the Booze Free Brigade.

I love that it's called a Brigade, because that's what we are - we're warriors.  Some people in this group are still drinking, or struggling to put more than a few days together, but that doesn't matter.  What matters is that we're all in this together - rooting each other on through our triumphs and tribulations with compassion, love and support.

When I was drinking my life got progressively smaller and darker.  By the end, I was so utterly lost and alone and full of shame, that the notion that a group of women could get together without alcohol and laugh until we were holding our sides and tears streamed down our faces was incomprehensible.  The idea that we could cry freely and without shame, that we could pour out our fears and vulnerabilities and fall back into such loving, compassionate arms, would have sent me running in the other direction.

When I was drinking, I lost the ability to feel, to show up in my own life.  I handled all emotions by going around them, losing myself in what I thought were the soothing effects of alcohol.  All I was doing was numbing out, hiding from playing the starring role in my own existence.

It's hard to find words to describe how this past weekend felt.  Every conversation was soulful, real.  We connected on a visceral level, these women who I had mostly previously only known through the pixelated world of my computer screen. 

As I drove to our rented house outside of Boston, I prayed that these people would be who I thought they were... it's the internet, after all.  Even though I felt such a strong connection to them, there is always the underlying fear that maybe I'm reading more into it than I should.  You can present any version of yourself you want over the internet, after all.   Going to spend three days and two nights with them felt exciting and a little risky.

But, when it comes down to it, we can present any version of ourselves we want to in real life, too, can't we?  In fact, we frequently do.  Don't you have several versions of yourself?  We are very, very rarely able to be completely ourselves.  Part of this is out of necessity, of course.  You aren't going to present the vulnerable, fearful version of yourself at work.  Or at a PTA meeting, or on the sidelines of a soccer game. Even among good friends, I know that I hold back often - although in sobriety I don't really shape shift much, anymore - but it's still rare that I can be my wholehearted self in my day-to-day life.

We went into Fanueil Hall, a huge marketplace in the heart of Boston.  Trying to get 16 women to come up with a plan of action - even to walk from one side of the marketplace to the other - was next to impossible.  Why?  Because we were lost in conversations with each other, one-on-one or in smaller groups, basking in simply being around each other.   It was like a drug, really, the feeling of connectedness I felt.

When I was drinking I was so careful to look put together.  I never showed my vulnerabilities, for fear you'd know that I was deeply flawed in some fundamental way.   I didn't understand the disease of alcoholism, I thought it was all about drinking.  I didn't realize the other aspects - how the chasm between our insides and how our outsides look gets wider and wider until our self-esteem, confidence and love for ourselves falls right in, deep down to the bottom of a bottle.

The idea that I could be so open, so trusting, so real - without a drop of alcohol in my system - was totally incomprehensible when I was drinking.  With recovering women I simply am.   We are drawn together because of our vulnerabilities, not in spite of them.  There isn't any one-upping each other.  This group represents all ages and stages of life. Recovery time ranges from days to years - and who knows?  Maybe even hours.  We are all alcoholics, after all.  It's possible there could have been people still struggling.  But it doesn't matter.

The important thing is that we're there for each other, because we're all the same.  Our adversities bind us together in ways that I just don't find in my day-to-day life.

That's what I didn't understand, before I got sober.  How grateful I'd be that I'm an alcoholic in recovery, because I would get the gift of me. 

We recorded a Bubble Hour episode Friday night, about negative self-talk, thinking patterns, and the tools we use to break self-destructive thought patterns.   There we were, a group of women, talking openly and without fear about our innermost thoughts.  We come together to share our experience, strength and hope to help ourselves first, and to help anyone else out there still struggling understand just how rich life can be on the other side of drinking.  Not perfect. Not easy. But oh so very rich.

I got to wrap my arms around these women who support me in more ways than I can articulate. I can't count how many times I said "I love you", without embarrassment and straight from my heart.  It doesn't matter that I'd never met them in person before.  They are woven into my life, into my spirit, in ways that defy explanation.

And one of the biggest gifts?  Meeting Lisa - one of the three Bubble Hour co-hosts (and co-moderator of Crying Out Now, too).

Ellie, Lisa and Amanda

Lisa, Amanda and I had never met - all three of us - in person before.  It felt like we had known each our whole lives (in Amanda's case, I have known her almost all my life, over 30 years, and what a blessing to share the gift of sobriety with my best friend - and former drinking buddy).

Now? It's hard to imagine my life without these women.

We recorded a video while we were there - our version of the Harlem Shake.  I won't share it in order to protect the anonymity of the women there, but I had a moment while we were filming it.  Dancing around with stuff on our heads (bowls, hats, magazines, towels - you name it) to the Harlem Shake... stone cold sober.  I thought to myself:  take that, stigma.   When people picture alcoholics, I don't think we're quite at the place where they see vibrant, funny, intelligent and compassionate women dancing and enjoying life to its fullest.  But we're working on that.  Together.

If you're still struggling, take heart.  Keep talking.  Keep showing up.  Get honest with yourself first, and please know that there are SO many people out there who understand, who know exactly how you feel.

You are NOT alone.

We're here.  And we will welcome you with open arms.

Recovering Chaos Junkie

I used to hate routine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly, though, I cherish routine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I slept like a baby last night.

Today I woke up feeling refreshed and grateful.

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

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

Looking Inward - A Very Brave Truthful Thursday

A note from Ellie:  Sorry for the symbol typos. I can't figure out how to get rid of them (they are buried in the HTML somewhere). My apologies to Anonymous.

***Submitted by Anonymous:

Ellie's statement for Truthful Thursdays said this:

Once you've identified a time when you have (or are) experiencing shame and vulnerability (almost always accompanied by their evil cousin fear) I want you to write about it.  If you don't have a blog, crack out pen and paper, or a word document, and just let it pour out.  Try, if you, can, to write about it in narrative form.  Close your eyes, picture yourself in that moment, or in that period of your life, and write it like a story.  Tell the truth, every part of it, especially the little nuggets of shame, fear or guilt you have mentally edited out because thinking about them makes you feel small.

~~~

OK, this is going to be hard.  I have thought about it before, and many times when Ellie writes something I almost, but almost, email her.  Or go to confession (I'€™m not Catholic) or write something. Somewhere.

Partly I don't know where to start.  Partly, the biggest part, is that shame.  The guilt.  The knowing that I feel so bad about it, that others would think the same.  I am writing anonymously, and will be emailing anonymously.  Not even Ellie should know it was ME.  So where do I start?  The shame is now, the event was six years ago. Or maybe seven.  

And yet, every time I read something like Ellie's post, the guilt gnaws at me.  €œRemember? You did that. That was you.  How could you open that up? No one must ever know.  That can't be forgiven.  

You can confess to God as much as you like, but it still happened.  And YOU did it. I try to be kind to myself, to be gentle with the person I was then; but it just sounds like excuses.  And the voice of shame and guilt comes back, and the knot in my heart tightens.

So, where do I start?  With the bald fact? I had an affair.  There, I have said it. You can stop reading now.  Turn away with the "How could she? Didn't she know? What an awful thing to have done." 

The shame, the disgust, the GUILT.

Or do I start with how it happened? But is that just making excuses?  Excuses for something that never SHOULD have happened.  Ever. Black and white.  But did happen.  To someone who claims to be, no not claims to be, IS a Christian no less.

I don't know. But unless I write it out, I may never find out.  Can there be forgiveness? CAN I move on?  Not have that memory lifted up EVERY communion? EVERY post about shame?  Acknowledge and be kind?

So, where to start?  At the beginning, I guess. You already know the ending.

I am keen, desperately keen. I want to get on in the world, to do the best I can. I am not ambitious in the traditional sense but I want to do more, to explore the possibilities.  And I am terrified in my job that I will get found out, that I will get put in my place.  I know I can do it, but I don't have the confidence to stand up to people.  Then an opportunity comes up to go on €˜make-or-break course.  

If I am successful, then there is so much out there for me.  If not?  No, there is no option of that...I HAVE to do well. 

And the course is exciting. There is so much to learn, I am bubbling over with enthusiasm.  And all the fear and lack of confidence is overtaken with excitement.  Too much so, I guess, because it doesn't go down so well with the others.  

I become the outsider. Again.  But I can't go back, I HAVE to stick it out.  I do my best, but it hurts.  I get pushed around, bullied in fact.  One of the course directors understands me, he can see through the fragile veneer around me, and reassures me I am OK.  Fundamentally, I AM an OK person, just too quick, too abrupt, too fragile for others to cope with.  Apart from the old technician.  He just takes it in his stride.  If I cry, he just hands me a tissue.  If I get left behind, he waits for me.  If the camp counselor bullies me (Oh, yes, that didn't help) and the group turns on me, he gives me a hug.

My husband? He complains about the state of the house. When I say I am in distress, he tells me about the tough time he is having at work.  

When I ask for a hug, he complains that I am not having sex. He says I am frigid, cold, that he doesn't know what works€™ for me. 

When I say he can ask and we can work it out, he says he tried that and nothing changed.  When I am exhausted, he pokes and pats me til 4 in the morning.  He puts me down. 

When I pluck up the courage to say that I was hurt by a particular comment, even though he may not have meant it, he says that he did mean it.  That the only way he can feel good about himself is to bring me down a bit if I get too high - it's like a teeter totter, only one can be up.

I try, and try.  Perhaps if I can clean the house better? Have sex more often? Be careful about what I say, or how I say it?  He is a good man, he has the confidence I admire, he has passion and drive.  But he is not always kind. If I cry, he complains that I am trying to manipulate him.

We try counseling.  The worst time, I am in the car with my mother and she is giving me a lift to the counselor because he has taken the car to go to his parents for an event.  I phone to ask if he will meet me there, or will we go together.  He is two hours away.  He got drunk the night before so had a lie in.  I have to phone the counselor myself and cancel.  15 minutes before the appointment, with my mother in the car hearing it all.

Looking back, we now know that he was suffering from depression.  It didn't manifest itself classically, so we didn't recognize it.  But I still had to live through it. And battle with my own.  

I remember sitting on the floor, rocking, stuffing my face with chocolate.  Every bite made me feel worse, and I knew it.  And I still couldn't stop.  That technician? Turned out he was an alcoholic. He understood.  He responded to me text for help, and talked me down.

Alcoholic. Uh-huh. Can you say €˜co-dependency?! But he understood. We had similar ways of thinking, similar sensitivities, and we would talk for hours on the phone, trying to make sense of the world we found ourselves in.  Me battling with my course, my life, ME.  And trying to get this friend to see he was killing himself.  Of course, I now know that an alcoholic can suck you right in to their drama.  A spiral of drama, soul searching, trying to make connections.

All I wanted was someone to understand me, to help me to understand myself, to function in the world as I saw other people doing so.  WAS I cold, frigid, unresponsive? I didn't think so. I could talk and bare my soul.  Even though my husband was not interested in listening.  

Was I insensitive in some way? Was I not picking up on cues? No, if anything I was TOO sensitive to micro-emotions in others.  That raised issues of my childhood, trying to make things right for my mom. Trying to do it RIGHT so I wouldn't trigger her.  I talked to counselors in my church.  Tried to do things RIGHT at home. 

The only place I didn't have to watch my tongue, to backtrack and say it wasn't how I meant it, a place where someone was interested enough to actually remember what I said, was with the alcoholic.  My friend.

It was inevitable, in a way.  And yet, why didn't I just walk away? Say no? Cut it all off?  I try to be kind to myself, to see that I was tangled in a web. And then the shame tells me that the web was of my own making.  Was it? What else could I have done?  Not have an affair, for a start. Yes, I know.  To my endless shame, I KNOW.  

But what could I do to make the world RIGHT that I hadn't already tried at the time?  How much more could I, SHOULD I have tried? But how much more strength did I have?  Without ANY support, would I have imploded?  Was there anywhere else I could have looked for support?  The church?  But how could I tell anyone that the man who looked the ideal husband wasn't always kind to me? Besides, it was my fault anyway, wasn't it?  No, you don't talk about things like that. 

Don't open the cracks for exposure.

So, for three months I did the unthinkable.  A physical affair.  And it ripped me apart.  I did start getting more help.  And started to put myself back together from where I had been shredded.  The comfort that I had experienced was now tainted, coated, with guilt.  But where did my heart belong?  Where did I belong?  Where did I go from now?  A few things happened, and my world shifted slightly.  Just a bit, but enough. I was strong enough to say no, to deal with the loss of support, to back away from trying to fix my friend, from making it right.™  And to try again to make it work with my husband.  And again.  And again.

Eventually? Yes, it worked.  His depression got treated. As did mine.  I grew stronger, learned more skills, built my internal strength rather than stronger barricades.  I stood up to my husband, and he respected it and me.  

Now, it is well. Really well.  Far, far better than ever before.  Before anything, but definitely before THAT.

But is that an excuse? A way of saying, See, everything happens for a reason.€™  It was all OK. 

Maybe, but having written this out, I can see that although it was not the RIGHT thing to do, it was what happened. I did what I did, because of the situation I was in at the time, with the internal resources I had at the time.  I did my best and, no, it wasn't good enough.  And, yes, there were some choices I could have - should have, even€“ made differently; points in time when I DID have the ability to choose differently, but didn't.  

But it is done.  It is gone.  I am trying to build my life, REBUILD it perhaps, with what I have now. 

And what I don't want is to try and build my life with a rotten cornerstone, with a sense of shame and guilt crumbling way at me.  

I don't know if that is possible, but I am making a start here and now.

I Hear You - A Call for Help From NJ in The Wake of Hurricane Sandy

"We are in the affected area of NJ hard hit by Sandy. Could use a post if you have any with encouraging words for those of us struggling not to drink during this extremely trying time. Any words of reflection and encouragement would be most helpful to us who feel like we are on an island floating in the tumultuous waves of uncertainty. Many of us are insulated from the news reports that are depicting the reality we are living. I am in an area that still has no power and am a nurse who has been working around the clock to provide care at a level 3 trauma center. I manage a level 3 intensive care Neonatal ICU. We are still in crisis mode since last week and don't see an end in sight. It even feels good just to vent here to someone who understands"

Her words come to me through the vast expanse of the internet, sitting in my Inbox today.  Though she is only a few states away from me, she may as well be on another planet.   I close my eyes and try to imagine my house surrounded my mud, water and debris, and having that be the least of my concerns; the top priority, of course, being the safety and well being of my family.

I can't imagine it.  I can't imagine family treasures lost to floods. I can't imagine a week without power and no end in sight - the spoiling food, the pets, and where do you sleep?  How to keep strong for your children when you're full of fear yourself?

I can't imagine the sights and smells and sounds she's experiencing in the NICU.  Where the smallest of the small struggle to exist even in the best of circumstances.  I can't imagine that weight on my shoulders.

I'm touched by her words that it helps to vent to someone who understands, because my words of advice and/or encouragement seem so small in the face of all this hardship.

But then I realize she's reaching out to me as a sober sister.  This part I do understand.  How do you stay sober when the world is pressing down on you, making you suffocate with boredom or responsibility or tragedy? 

Because a drink is the only way to hide from yourself, to lift the burden of being in your own mind, even temporarily.  

This part, I understand. I think most of us do, and not just alcoholics, either.  Normal Ordinary Regular People (whom I fondly call "NORPS") drink, a lot of the time, for that same little release.  That whoosh of freedom from mental anguish, stress, anxiety or boredom.

When you're sober, this particular mental trap door is no longer an option for you.  Because if you're a surrendered alcoholic, you know you won't stop at one and then you won't be of any use to anyone, least of all yourself.

So I DO understand. She's triggered, and looking around at the ruins of the life she knew before the storm make the reasons not to drink become smaller and smaller.  She's asking me to remind her why a drink is a bad idea, or how to get through this sober.  Because that's what we do for each other.

There are the more commonplace (some say trite) words of advice like "this too shall pass" - all bumper-stickery and can only serve to aggravate and enrage someone in the throes of wanting a drink.  Because when you're in the grips of a craving, it feels like it will never pass.  When you're in the grips of tragedy, it feels like life will never be set right again.

And maybe it won't ever be the same.  Maybe you're sailing toward a new normal, one you can't begin to envision right now. One where you rolled up your sleeves in the face of tragedy and did your best.  Your sober, present, anxious, stressed and sometimes victorious BEST.  You didn't hide in a drink, because you're needed.  By strangers and family alike, you're needed, and that's part of what makes you want to hide.

So I'm here to say I HEAR YOU.  When the rest of the world wants something from you, all I want for you is to get through this moment, and then the next, until the moments pile up, the waters recede and life slowly pieces itself back to its new normal.  If you disappear in a drink, you may never come back. You'll recede with the flood waters, little by little, until you're barely recognizable to yourself.

When this passes - and it WILL pass, no matter how frustrating it sounds at the moment - you will look back with pride, sorrow and peace of mind that you DID it. You got through.  Sober.  You're out there fighting more than one battle - you're fighting the elements and the lack of power and the darkness and the water and keeping young babies alive, and you're fighting your demon at the same time.

I think that makes you the bravest person in the world at the moment.  I hope that's what you need to hear. Because I can't do any more than tell you I think you are incredible - truly - and an inspiration to every single person out there batting back their urge to drink without flood waters around there ankles. 

Take a deep breath, my sister, and be proud. I am proud of you. We are all rooting for you, and everyone standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you during this difficult time.

I. Hear. You.  And you have inspired me in ways mere words can't express.  

Thank you.

My Guest Post at Women Heal: An Online Alliance

"I am currently in recovery from two chronic, life altering diseases that if left untreated are always fatal.

Always."

..... to read the rest of my guest post please go on over here.

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Today I'm honored to be a guest poster at the newly founded WomenHeal: an Online Alliance, which has one mission: to create a safe space where women can collectively encourage growth and healing for themselves, each other and the world.   

So please head on over, read my post, and while you're there please consider donating (there is a tab on the site that tells you how) to help Christa and her team build this amazing site.  Even a little makes a big difference, and as they quote on their site: 

"A few years ago, the Dalai Lama said, 'The world will be saved by the Western woman.' Let’s prove him right."

Even if you don't donate, sign on up for their Twitter and Facebook pages - they are building something really special here, and we need to help them spread the word.  I'm honored to be part of it in some small way.

~~~~~

On a side note - there will be no "Truthful Thursday" tomorrow, because my daughter is having her tonsils and adenoids out.  Please keep her in your prayers.  Thank you.

FULL DISCLOSURE:  I was not compensated in any way - monetary or otherwise - to do this post. I just like to be part of amazing things.

Aftermath - Truthful Thursdays - TRIGGER Warning

TRIGGER WARNING:  This post is about suicide, so if you feel this may be a trigger for you - for ANY reason - please know in advance this is a first hand account of someone who lost a loved one to suicide and don't read it if it will be too hard.

***Submitted by Kathryn, who blogs at This Could Get Ugly

In a meeting, my phone rings.  

I see it's my oldest son and I push "silent", I'll call him back shortly.  He calls again as we're wrapping up, I joke, let me go call my son back, he probably needs money.  I text him "Text me, in a meeting".  

He answers "Call me please". 

Back at my desk, I call my boy.  "Mom, I don't know how to say this any other way.  Dad shot himself."  So calm, he's so calm, not true, that's not true, who told you that, WHO TOLD YOU THAT?  He's on his way to his father's house, no don't come, I'll call you, don't come, I'm fine, I'll call you mom.  

The phone drops from my hand.  

Coworkers rush to my side, lay their hands on me as I sob helplessly, I can't speak, can't tell them, what's wrong, what's wrong, oh my God please let him be alive but I know he's not alive, I know it in my heart that is broken, broken for my son and for his father who lost the battle with the demons in his brain.  

For how alone I know he felt at the moment he pulled the trigger and left us awash in grief and regret, why didn't I know this?  Why didn't you call me, you always called me when you needed to talk oh god why didn't you call me this time?  

I spoke to him on Monday, now it’s Wednesday and he’s dead. 

Watch my son go from a boy to a man in the space of hours.  It falls to him to plan his father's funeral because his stepmother can't, she wants him cremated immediately with no goodbyes.  This cannot happen, his father needs to see him, his mother, his sister...we need to see him.  We need to send him off.  We need to gather and weep and mourn and so he will stand up and say "My father will have a funeral", and she will agree.  She's devastated, I understand the impulse to put this behind her but it's my son and his grandfather I'm thinking of now.  

Have I been a good enough mother to my son, have I helped him grow into a young man who can deal with his father’s suicide and the aftermath, the death arrangements?  I don’t see him cry, ever…did I teach my son not to cry?  Please God let him not feel he has to hold all of this inside, don’t let my son be like his father who never projected any emotion but anger into the world until it literally killed him.  Please don’t let him be a man who can’t stand to deal with the emotions of others, he doesn’t let his friends come to the funeral because he doesn’t want them fussing over him, doesn’t want to deal with emotion.  Cannot go up and comfort his grandfather as he weeps over his dead son’s body in the coffin.  

“No, Mom, I can’t do it, I can’t handle the crying.”  Maybe my job as a mother isn’t done, or maybe I didn’t do it right.  My heart clenches…my boy is not whole.  His father is dead.  I want him to have the gift of grief, of breaking down in uncontrolled, cleansing  tears when it’s called for.  I can’t give him this…I can rarely give it to myself.   It’s so hard to accept that maybe it’s just who he is, that he still has growing to do as a man, and that my shame is perhaps misplaced.  He is not just me, he’s his father, too, and himself.  I could not bear to go to funerals at his age, as we get older we realize what a necessity it is despite the pain and awkwardness and crying people everywhere.  

The days pass in a twilight of unreality, a cloak of sadness.  Wake up every day, thank God I can sleep but the problem with that is waking up every day to knowing that my friend, my son's father, is dead...yes, it's still true.  Every day a new problem for my son to navigate, it falls to me to help him with his father's funeral and I gladly do it, I wish I could take this burden off of him but I have no standing, no authority...I was not his wife.  I will not do anything to cause her further pain and so I tread carefully between his father's family with whom I am still close, and his wife.  Sit with his 10 year old daughter, my son's half-sister, while they go into the funeral home to make plans...hold her while she cries, "I don't have a daddy anymore!"  

No baby girl, but your daddy loved you so much, he had  a smile in his voice every time he said your name, he was so proud of you, so proud, your daddy loved you and you will always have him, he's just gone away now but you have him.  

Smile at her questions, children are so honest.  "Were you married to my daddy?"  No, baby, your daddy was only ever married to your mommy. "Why does J (my five year old) live with you and not us?"  

He has a different daddy than you and your brother, he lives with his daddy and me.  Heart....broken.  I know if he could see this, the devastation of his children, he would not have done what he did, he loved these kids so much.  I know he couldn't see anything but the pain he thought was all that was left of his life.  This hurts my heart as much as his being gone from us now, why didn’t I know this?  Things run through my mind that I could have done, why didn’t I go to his job and make him go to the doctor, why didn’t I take him to the hospital, why didn’t I call his wife and ask her what was wrong with him, he seems depressed.  Why why why? There are no answers to any of our questions, and there never will be.  

We get through the days, we say our goodbyes.  His sister and I read poetry at his funeral.  My son gives his father a beautiful eulogy.  I am so very proud of my son, and almost unbearably sad that he has to do this. 

We are driving in the car on Tuesday, the first day we have alone since all the family has departed, he wants to show me the apartment he’s going to move into soon.  I can’t think right now about how it will feel when he doesn’t live here anymore, I’m too raw with grief over his father to contemplate how that will feel and anyway I know that it’s all part of the same thing.  I can’t cling to him now because of this, he needs to make his own way in the world. 

The first thing we do when we get in the car is turn on Third Eye Blind, the self-titled album.  He says “I’ve been playing this every day, it’s got me through ”.  Feel my heart lift that my son has found comfort and release the same way that I have these last few days, listening to our favorite music.  I tell him that I wanted to play this at his dad’s funeral but we both know the family wouldn’t have understood.  

My poor, lost friend. 

I am left wondering what I missed, what happened, what I could have done.  I feel so guilty that I didn’t know you would do this, that the conversations we were having were your way of saying goodbye, not asking me how to change things you had so much regret about.  My guilt at not being able to keep you from leaving this world...I don’t know what to do with that.  None of us put the gun in your hand, but I feel like I should have KNOWN.  And I feel shame that whenever I think about how you died, I feel not only the loss of you, and the loss our son is experiencing, but also a deep gratitude that you didn’t take anyone else with you; that you were just a suicide, horrible enough, but thank God not a murder-suicide.  I can’t help those feelings but they make me feel so small. 

The ache I feel for how you left us, for how you couldn’t see any other way, will stay with me as long as I live.  I will watch over our son, and your daughter.  

I will say your name every day, hoping that one day you’ll answer.  

Anger Managment - My Mom Fail Moment

***Submitted by Julie, who blogs at Sober Julie Doing Life.... Straight Up!

This summer seems to have been one of change for our 8-year-old, there has been a dynamic shift in her that somehow occurred so swiftly and silently I missed it. She has suddenly become unable to deal with any kind of frustration, she immediately flies into a rage such as I’ve never seen. This has been happening at every impasse for over a month now and until now I thought I had a hold on it….by controlling situations I thought I could avoid her being frustrated and help with her anger management.

Every morning I know I must have things in order; Sydney’s chosen clothing is laid out the night before, lunches are made, school bags are packed up with homework and permission forms are signed and ready to go. Heaven help us all if something creates a hitch in the morning routine, I cannot cope with the fallout of her rage first thing in the morning.

This morning I lazily raise my eyelids halfway to glance at the clock after a horrible night of broken sleep, hoping I have a few more snooze worthy minutes before the alarm would sound. As my gaze settles upon the blue neon digits awareness seeps through my body like a blood chilling anesthetic. Fear instantly overtakes me as my muscles tighten and my brain begins to race, fighting to understand what these numbers mean to me.

8:00am

How is this possible, what the HELL????

As my rate of breathing increases, I raise my achy body from the bed as quickly as I can. My mind fights to ignore the chronic pain I wake with daily as I try to move as quickly as possible down the hall to the girls bedrooms.

Oh Lord please let this be an easy morning, please God just let her wake in a happy mood. I pray as I enter into the unknown which is my lovely, funny, amazingly over-sensitive daughters bedroom.

How could I allow this to happen, I’m a horrible Mother…..I dropped the ball again and slept through the alarm, Brad will be home from work soon and that’s going to set her off….

“Sydney, Syd lovey it’s time to get up” I say gently to her as I gently stroke her messy hair, careful not to rush this waking moment. Her eyelids flutter revealing her beautiful sleep fogged eyes which take a moment to come awake. In the next second I realize her mood as she growls at me and rolls over to face the wall mumbling something about me going away.

Moving along to the next bedroom I call out in my fake, happy Mom voice “Come along ladies, time to get up for school.”

Twenty minutes, I only have twenty minutes to get them ready….my anxiety is building, must get it down…oh I’m not built for this…other Mom’s do it with more than 2 kids, I SUCK! I begin to make myself yawn in an effort to calm myself…

Finding my second daughter already up out of her bed enjoying a HUGE morning stretch I begin to smile, she sees me and I’m greeted with her sunshine and lollipops attitude. Forcing myself to ignore the griping coming from #1′s bedroom, I slow down for a moment to receive a hug and to whisper to her that we’re running late, could she get herself in the bathroom and get moving quickly for mama?

Thankfully she’s in a fine mood and agrees but that still leaves the other one, my first born baby who saddens me with each horrible name she’s yelling at me from under her covers. I take a breath and enter her kingdom of animosity, preparing for the battle which will surely ensue hoping my armor can handle it all today.

“Ok Sydney here’s the deal, it’s after 8 now and we’ve got to get moving. You won’t have time to watch TV this morning. I’m going to make you some raisin toast. Please get up and get dressed.”

“WHATTTTTT oh you’re so MEAN, NO! NO! I’m not going to school then! I want a new family! It’s not FAIR!”

Her rage is instant and palpable, it feels like the walls are shaking. My hands are trembling as I take a huge deep breath and turn down the hall ignoring the urge to either hug her or discipline her. There’s not point trying to do anything now, I don’t have TIME for this!!!

Entering the kitchen I make them a quick breakfast on auto-pilot, paste on a smile for my younger daughter as I serve her while ignoring the racket from the far end of the house. Please let her be getting dressed….she’ll never have time to get her hair done, brush her hair and eat now.

My husband arrives home from a night at work and his loving greeting is interrupted by stomping feet heading into the bathroom. My hand whips into the air as I visibly stop him from saying a word “Let’s just get through this please.” I state in a firm, tense voice above the recriminations coming from the bathroom.

Placing Sydney’s toast on paper towel I give my youngest a kiss and a hug and guide her out the door instructing her and my husband to go ahead, I’ll have Sydney out in a few minutes. Ten minutes left until the bell rings, that gives me 5 minutes to get her into some sort of a good mood and out the door….

Weighing the odds I know I’m fighting an uphill battle but can’t face the defeat I already feel deep in my bones. As she stomps into the room with half brushed hair, wearing the shirt she had on the day before and pants which are going to be much too warm for the forecast my last vestige of patience slips further.

I bite my tongue and step gingerly towards her with that oh so bright smile on my face, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl I KNOW is in there. The loving, generous child who strokes my hair when I’m sick, the one whose giggles make my soul sing…..hoping with my whole being that she’ll show her face.

She snatches her breakfast from my hand, grabs her backpack and slams the door on her way out, leaving me with parting shots which hit my heart like darts.

Staring at the door I’m breathing deeply, glad to have it finshed…when the internal dialogue begins. The self-deprecating internal chatter which wrecks my facade of capability. And of course I do what every good, caring Mom does at this point…..go get a coffee and google “coping with rage in children”.

This is an example of a not-so pretty moment in my life, unfortunately as you can see I’m still a selfish person…my inner dialogue is often more focused upon life’s demands and my own feelings rather than my child’s turmoil but it’s a work in progress and I realize I’m still learning.

Thank you to Ellie for the challenge, I hope many of my readers and friends will submit, too!

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To learn more about the guidelines for Truthful Thursdays and submit a post of your own (you can do it anonymously if you wish, please FIRST read this post here and send submissions to onecraftyellie@gmail.com. 

Thank you!