Is That Lipstick On That Pig?

People fascinate me.    Whether you are a good friend or the guy who works at the post office, I'm always wondering: what makes you tick? 

I want to know all about you - what are your dreams, your fears, your idiosyncracies?   What keeps you up at night?   What do you love about yourself?  What do you hate?   I feel other peoples' feelings like they are my own.   If you're sad, I'll cry for you.   If you're jubilant, my heart soars.

 I have a harder time drumming up this kind of curiosity about myself, though.

I just finished a book by Christopher Kennedy Lawford called Moments of Clarity.   Lawford, who is a recovering alcoholic and addict, interviewed dozens of celebrites, politicians - people in the public eye - about the moment they knew they had a problem with addiction.   This is not the same thing as rock bottom, mind you.    A few of the people he interviewed had a moment of clarity about their addiction and proceeded to continue drinking or using for some time.    What Lawford was exploring was the moment they knew, with frightening lucidity, that substance abuse had taken the reins; that they were powerless over alcohol, drugs, or both.

This got me thinking about how difficult it can be to really know yourself.    We all experience those moments where we really see ourselves, stripped of pretense or showmanship.    Sometimes, for me, it's something small.  I get dressed up for a night out, and leave the house thinking I look really put together.   Later I'll catch a glimpse of myself reflected in a window, or a mirror, and think: what was I thinking, wearing this?    I will see how I was trying to project some image of myself that doesn't quite work.   That isn't me.

I do this with bigger things, too, like addiction and recovery.    I remember my own moment of clarity, the moment I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had a problem with alcohol.  It happened in a flash.   Some lucid part of my brain broke through and shouted:  what are you doing?   This is no way to live!   It felt it like a punch in the gut.   As quickly as it came, it was gone, replaced by my carefully constructed justifications and rationales.   By my denial.   I continued drinking for two more years.

Oddly, in recovery it feels like the stakes are higher.   I feel, on some days, like the only thing between me and the web of addiction is my ability to try to be truthful with myself.    This can be exhausting.   Who wants to spend much time peeking into the darker corners of their psyche?   The temptation to overlook reality, to gloss over the parts that make me uncomfortable, is huge.  

I realize, now, that I can't always trust what I think.   Maybe I can't even usually trust what I think.  

In recovery, unanesthetized, the little bells that ring in my head that say something's off here, are harder to ignore.    I know that left to my own resources I can dress up any problem until it feels comfortable. Until it fits with my perception of myself, or how I'd like to be.   Until it makes me stop squirming.    All I can do to protect myself is open my mouth.   Rat myself out.    Turn to a trusted friend and say does this make sense to you?   

I believe a big part of my recovery, my healing, is finding my voice again, learning to trusting my intuition.  Taking some calculated risks, exploring new, exciting and sometimes uncomfortable things.   But not alone.  

No, never alone.

Fake It 'Til You Make It

I strut into the coffee shop, my laptop slung over my shoulder in a hand-me-down carrying case.   I try to adopt a confident manner, like I do this sort of thing all the time, come to a wi-fi hot spot to do some writing.

I grab a cup of strong coffee, open my laptop and settle in comfortably.   I'm here to work on my book.    This is what writers do, right?   Do I look like a writer?   Should I be wearing spectacles, or a mock turtleneck?   Should I have sheaths of paper scattered about, covered in furious little notations?    

The coffee shop is full of families - Moms with their children trying to keep the wolf away from the door for an hour or so, taking the kids out to lunch.    I feel this irrational compulsion to explain myself to them:  I'm just faking it, I want to whisper.   I've got kids at home.  I'm a Mom, too.

Stop it, I admonish myself.    You are a writer.   Say it:  I'm a writer.   Louder!   I'M A WRITER!

I remember having a crisis of confidence when I went back to work part-time, when my youngest was 14 months old.    I felt like I was playing dress-up, putting on nylon stockings and a crisp ironed navy suit, taking the train into the city.    I sat with the other commuters and felt like a kid on bring-your-daughter-to-work day.    

 

I have no business being here, I thought.  I'm too rusty.  My brain has atrophied from four years of diaper changing and playdates.   The version of me that was a Business Person seemed a million miles away.    So I faked it for a while.   I put a brave smile on my face.   I changed my walk to something that looked more business-y to me.    I wore silk scarves.   I matched the bored, disinterested expressions of my fellow commuters, even though my stomach was full of butterflies.

Eventually, it felt more natural to me.   I didn't have to steel myself each morning, tell myself that I could do this.  I just did it.

In early recovery, I heard something that struck me.   Someone was speaking about his misfortunes, the wreckage of his past that he was working through, sober.   "I was thinking to myself, why me?"  he said.   "Then suddenly I thought, why NOT me?  What makes me so special that I get a free pass out of misery?"

I completely identified with what he said.  I had no trouble believing that any misery that came my way was well deserved.    

I can come up with a million reasons why I can't do something. Sometimes I don't even have a good reason. It's just that I can't, I think.

Today I'm trying to use my powers for good instead of evil.   Why can't I be a writer?   Why can't I just go for it?   And when the You-Can't Committee in my head speaks up in unison, I go to a coffee shop and pretend to be a writer.   And you know what?   It's a good start.   I'm writing, aren't I?

Coming In For A Landing

It has been one of those weeks.  

It's school vacation week - didn't we just have school vacation?    We didn't have any grand plans - just a lot of unstructured time around the house bumping into each other.   Greta was really sick in the days before the break, and we were in and out of the doctor's office all week.  Just as she started to feel better, Finn got sick. And then I got sick.   Nothing serious - no fevers or anything - just a bad head cold and cough that has us moping around feeling icky.    Just sick enough that getting out to go do stuff feels like too much, but staying home feels antsy.    I feel like I've been staring at the interior of my messy house for ages.

My mind feels like a flock of birds zooming around looking for a place to land.   I have a lot I want to be doing - jewelry to make, writing to do, but each day - each hour- is a series of frustrating stops and starts.   It took fifteen minutes just to type these two paragraphs.

The mother-guilt creeps in, slowly suffocating me.   Too much television, too much computer time.  I can practically hear their little brains rotting away.   

It is so hard to just stop.    To hunker down, get over our colds, spend some down time together.   We crawled to the movies yesterday, and even that was exhausting.    This morning the kids and I colored pictures for a bit, and I tried to settle in, just be there, without a lot of success.  

My expectations and my reality keep colliding.    I'm struggling with a major case of the 'shoulds'.  We should have planned a vacation, I should be getting more done, we should be out doing educationally enriching things, I should be more organized.    The reality is that we can't afford a big vacation, we're sick, and we're doing all we can.   Why is that so hard to accept?     Life on life's freaking terms, and all that.

I have moments, though, of extreme gratitude.   Little things here and there that remind me that everything could be so much worse.    Sunday, before the sickies hit, my husband took the kids to his parents' house so I could get some alone time, check a few items off my to-do list.    That night I got in the car to go to a meeting, and the battery was dead.    I was stuck.   Immediately this thought flitted across my mind:   this would have been a major problem if I was still drinking.  If I was stuck home alone with no alcohol and no way of getting more.   Suddenly, instead of feeling stuck I felt really, really free.

This week, for all its frustration and inertia, was exactly the sort of situation that would have sent me spiraling, sent me straight to the bottle for relief from boredom, from resentment and anger.    It occurred to me this morning that I didn't think about drinking - not once - the whole week.    That is a miracle.

We'll get through.   The kids will go back to school next week and I will get my routine back.   Even though we're not getting a lot accomplished this week, I'm here.  I'm present.    And just writing all this, airing it all out, has given my mental flock of birds a place to land. 

It is, as they say, what it is.

One Voice At A Time

"As we must account for every idle word, so must we account for every idle silence." - Benjamin Franklin

Take a moment to go over to Violence Unsilenced, founded and moderated by Maggie, Dammit - an incredible woman who, along with thousands of others, speaks out to shed a light on domestic violence, sexual abuse and assault by giving survivors a voice. Today is the one year anniversary of this incredible movement. Check out their anniversary video here. Violence Unsilenced brings peoples' hearts and voices together to break down the walls of shame, isolation and pain. It is grace in motion, and it is beautiful. Read, comment and show your support.

Snapshots ~ Before

It’s 11:30am on a gorgeous, crisp fall day. I’m sitting outside, soaking in the bright September sun with ten other mothers. It’s our usual Wednesday morning playgroup, and we’re chatting, sipping coffee, keeping one eye on our kids playing on the nearby swing set. I have a moment of clarity, a snapshot of myself: my long blonde hair is freshly frosted, swept up in a fashionable clip. I’m dressed in jeans and a colorful sweater, legs crossed, coffee cup perched in one hand. A friend is telling a funny story about her three year old’s latest tantrum. I see myself tilt my head back, laughing with the other Moms. It hits me, like a punch in the gut: I’m such a fraud.

Oh, God, if they only knew.

Greta, who is two, calls out to me to push her on the swings. I flash the other Moms a knowing glance – so much for adult time – and walk carefully over to the swings. I’m grateful for the interruption: my hands were starting to tremble, ever so slightly, and I was having a hard time holding my coffee steady.

I push Greta on the swings, her laughter coming to me as though from a great distance. My head pounds, my gut churns, and I’m starting to sweat.

“Two more minutes, then we have to go,” I whisper to Greta.

She immediately begins to wail. “NOOOOO! I wanna STAY!” The other mothers glance over, sympathetic.

I grit my teeth and smile wider. “I know you’re disappointed, but we really have to go.”

She jumps off the swing and throws herself on the ground, crying. I’ve got to get out of here. I scoop Greta up, and she clings to me, sobbing. Her cries cut me to the bone, the other mothers’ stares feel like lasers. Do they know? Can they tell? They are all smiling at me, wishing me luck. I give a quick laugh – oh, two year olds, what can you do? - and wave as I scuttle to the car.

I drive home, my hands gripping the wheel, my thoughts racing. I’ll be okay once I’m home. I just need to get home.

I put Greta down for her nap, humming to her until she falls asleep. My hands are shaking in earnest, now, and my headache is blinding. I head downstairs and open the fridge, telling myself I’m going to have a glass of milk to settle my stomach. My eyes fall on the one-quarter full bottle of Chardonnay, glistening at the back of the top shelf. I reach for the milk, and grab the bottle of wine instead. Just one sip, to take the edge off, I think. It’s not like I’m going to get drunk in the middle of the afternoon. Just one to feel better. I take a long swig, and my stomach heaves. I wait a moment, wondering if it will stay down. It does. I take another swig, and the shaking in my hands stops. My body relaxes, my mind is blissfully quiet.

An hour later the bottle is empty. How did that happen? I don’t feel drunk, or even a little buzzed. I feel normal, finally. Without thinking about what I’m doing, I go to the sink, fill the empty bottle one-quarter full with water from the tap and shove it in the back of the fridge. I’ll have to buy some more later, I think. Before Steve gets home I’ll replace the water with wine, and pour the rest down the sink because tonight I’m not going to drink.

And at that moment, I mean it.

My daughter wakes up from her nap, and we sit on the floor and do puzzles, play games. My body is warm, glowing, and my patience is infinite. Again, a snapshot flashes through my brain: a happy, involved mother playing with her child. A good mother, an engaged mother. Not an alcoholic mother. I think: alcoholic mothers don’t play with their kids like this.

At 6pm, we sit down to dinner. I’m smiling, slightly flushed, animated. My husband and I chat about our day and Greta babbles along with us, pleased at her growing vocabulary. I have replaced the bottle in the fridge, up to the same level as before, pouring three-quarters of it into a large water bottle now stashed in the bathroom closet. Steve and I have a glass of wine with dinner. I have promised him I’ll cut back on my drinking, so I make sure he doesn’t notice when I duck away to the bathroom to nip from the water bottle filled with wine.

It’s my turn to put Greta to bed. I’m in an expansive, buoyant mood, and I make a game out of brushing her teeth and putting on her pajamas. I kiss her good night, tell her I love her, and head back downstairs thinking: see? I can control my drinking. I played with my kid, fixed dinner, put her to bed. I am so much more patient after a glass or two of wine.

It’s 10pm, and I come out of a grey-out. I’m yelling at my husband about something – what? – I can’t remember. He looks at me with hurt and disgust and heads upstairs to bed. I’m crying, but I don’t know why. I turn on some sad music, flop on the couch and sob. Nobody understands me. I’m unlovable. I need a drink. I tiptoe to the bathroom and rummage around under the folded towels until I find the hidden water bottle. It’s empty. I begin to panic. I can’t be out, I’ll never make it, and then I remember another stash in the back of the coat closet.

One last snapshot: me, on my hands and knees in the coat closet, drinking straight from the open bottle, full of relief that there is more wine.

I think: tomorrow is a new day. It’s just that today was extra stressful. I won't drink tomorrow.

I don’t know it, of course, but I still have two more years of tomorrows to go.

Twice Monthly Giveaway - New Item!

Congratulations to Corinne, who won the Swarvoski Square Ring! Thank you to everyone who entered.

This week's giveaway is for the Three Peas in a Pod Necklace:

Click on the top picture to see the listing in my Etsy shop. To enter, please leave a comment below saying you would like to enter. Please let an email address where you can be contacted if you win! If you are more comfortable emailing me directly, please do so at: ellieandsteve@verizon.net.

This giveaway is open internationally.

The winner will be chosen on March 1st; my daughter draws a name from a hat.

Thank you!

Love and Mawage

Sunday is Valentine's Day, and love is in the air here. Lately, Finn is obsessed with marriage. He's four, and you can't be too prepared for these big life decisions. Greta has gone from being a little girl in a saggy diaper singing along to the Wiggles to a mooning pre-tween right under my nose.

I don't know where Finn's obsession with marriage came from, but last week he started peppering me with questions:

"Do I hafta get mahweed?" (every time he says that I think of that scene from Princess Bride: Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam...)

"If I wanna mahwee Tim, can I?"

"Do I hafta kiss when I get mahweed? Cause dat's GWOSS."

"Too many girls wanna mahwee me. So I'm gonna mahwee dem all. Dat's okay, wight?"

There is one girl who has consistently held a special place in his heart, though. He has been proclaiming his affection for her for over a year. He hasn't told her, yet, which is probably for the best. The girl he wants to marry most is Ren. Damomma's Ren. The Dialobical Genius Ren. The one who could eat him for lunch and look adorable doing it?

The other day, in the car on the way to school, he says for the umpteenth time: "I'm gonna mahwee Wen."

Greta: "I don't think Ren's Dad is going to like that, Finn."

Finn: "I don't want to mahwee her Dad, I want to mahwee WEN!"

It's a match made in heaven. Finn is utterly, completely content being stagehand to Ren's Director. Greta was a big fan of the idea, because then Ren's sister Mary, who is one of her best friends, would be her sister-in-law. I amused myself by picturing what sort of wedding Ren would want to have. It's hard to say, but I know there won't be any tulle involved.

And Damomma and I would be the mothers-in-law. How freaking awesome would that be? I've already picked out the hat I'll wear to their wedding:

They'd be adorable together wouldn't they?