I Put My Hammer Down. A Big Thank You to Creative Alliance

I am centered.

At the moment I'm sitting in a waiting area at LAX, completely in flux, several hours to go before my flight.   I should be a nervous wreck.

But I'm not.

Any words I can dig out of my head won't do justice for what the past three days have been like, so I'm not really going to try.   And the details of the weekend are likely only interesting to me and others who were there.

But the glow I feel inside - even as I sit in my least favorite place (airport) and anticipate doing my least favorite thing (flying) - is real and it warms my spirit.

I think there are some people who don't believe what I witnessed at Creative Alliance could really happen. If I'm honest with myself, I was probably one of them.   I'm still new to this blogging thing, but I've observed enough Twitter dramas and blogging conference weirdness to know there is a lot of clanging around vying for attention in this world.

For me, Creative Alliance was about connection, authenticity, vision and respect.   I listened to women who are the best of their craft share what they know and how they stay the line.   They spoke openly and freely about how they can struggle with balance, about how they dig deep to keep building and dreaming, even as the crazy pace of life tugs them in a myriad of directions.

It was invigorating to be in a room with dozens of women who have so many ideas, so many visions, that a common thread among them all was figuring out how to choose which ones to pursue?

When someone expressed ways they were stuck, or struggling, women were clamoring to offer their support, encouragement and advice.  

I learned more about the business end of blogging - something I don't know much about and have been wondering:   is this something I'm supposed to care about?    I have left other conferences feeling like I must be approaching this the wrong way, because I don't know that I'm interested in any of it.   

It was liberating to be informed and educated about the business of blogging without feeling judged or intimidated.   It was empowering to hear women speak with passion and determination about their goals - without apology, excuses or putting down others' visions.  

It grounded me.  I have been doing that 'what does blogging mean to me, what the heck am I doing this for, what is my end goal' shuffle for weeks now.   

Wise, lovely, compassionate women pulled me aside and talked me through my fears.   What I figured out, in a nutshell, is that all this existential hand-wringing is just so much white noise.   What I have here isn't broken, and I should stop trying to fix it.   

It reminds me of one of my favorite quotes:  "When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail."  

I have put my hammer down.

I communed with other writers - women whose blogs I read with something akin to awe, and whose creative spirits I admire and respect.   They shared their tricks of the trade, their favorite resources, their coping mechanisms.  They shared themselves.

 

I was honored and humbled to read a piece for Ann Imig's amazing production:  Listen to Your Mother - Mom Salon.   I sat, breathless, listening to the other readers take us on a journey of laughter, tears, pain and redemption.    Ann's vision for Listen To Your Mother is so inspiring, and Ann herself is overflowing with grace, love and talent.   Give yourself a treat and check out the Listen to Your Mother website to learn more.   You can also find her at her personal blog, Ann's Rants; the place I go when I want to laugh until tears flow.

And last but absolutely not least, my heartfelt thanks to Lee, Jessica, Andrea , Cynthia and all the other core team members of Creative Alliance for this unbelievable weekend.  

Thank you for fueling my spirit, inspiring me and embodying what it means to be strong, creative, authentic, professional, loving women.

As Lee would say -- it was totally epic.

Respect

It's 6am, still dark out, and rain is softly falling.

I'm sitting outside my hotel room door on a protected stairwell, so I won't wake my roomates, typing on my laptop like a junkie waiting for a score.

I need these moments of quiet reflection to soak in all that is happening this weekend.

Creative Alliance began yesterday morning at Calliote Canyon, a breathtakingly beautiful home nestled in the hills north of Los Angeles.  There is a large yurt, a babbling creek and a fire pit - in short, it's the perfect place to step off the grid, rejunvenate, unwind and let creative juices flow.

Yesterday afternoon we all gathered in the yurt.   Forty women, sitting in a circle, sharing their hopes and dreams, communing over a common purpose:  foster creativity and nurture authentic relationships in the online world.

 

As people introduced themselves and shared their dreams, frustrations and hopes, heads nodded all around the room.   There was laughter, clapping and comaraderie.   Some people articulated their aspirations out loud for the first time ever, without fear of ridicule.    With so many creative, smart, entrepreneurial women in the room, ideas floated through the air like little sparkling diamonds.  It was grace in motion.

It was a kind of like being at a recovery meeting; sitting together in a roomful of people - some who I know, some who I don't - where nobody wants to see you fail.    It's a rare event indeed, particularly in what can be a cut-throat, drama filled world, to assemble and share our experience, strength and hope to help make our own dreams a reality and help others achieve theirs.

Some of these women are household names, at least in the microcosm of the blogosphere, and are sharing what they have learned, how they stay the course, what they aspire to achieve next.  Some, like me, are new to the table and are soaking it in like a sponge, drafting behind their expertise with something like awe and more than a little respect.

It is a place of belonging.    My fears of not fitting in, not being 'big' enough or 'good' enough, seem small to me now.    What I'm learning, as I travel this odd road, is that if I look within myself, hold myself up only in comparison to my own definition of success and stay true to my vision, my heartsong, is that I can accomplish anything.

I know how obvious and trite that sounds, like something right out of the pages of a cheesy self-help book.    But for me, it's not obvious.   Not at all.   For most of my life I have been so externally focused, so determined to measure up to other peoples' standards for themselves
and for me, that this self-grounded sensation is new.  

I like it.

The first light of dawn is peeking through, now.  People are stirring, the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the air.    I've gotten my blogging fix, huddled here on the stairwell, and I can't wait to see what today brings.

Pulse

Drinking.   Motherhood.   Recovery.

These words wake me, knocking at the door of my subconsciousness.   I'm growing used to this phenomenon, of my brain gently nudging me awake as it chews on thoughts like a puppy on a bone.  

It takes me a moment to get my bearings; it is still dark out.   The bedside clock reads 3:15am.    I hear a plane, a low grumble followed by a powerful roar as it prepares for takeoff.   

Ah, yes.   I'm in Los Angeles, at an airport hotel.   Later this morning I'll embark on a three day journey full of learning, laughter and love.

But for now this fledgling day is quiet, calm.   The pre-dawn darkness settles over me, and I try to return to slumber.

Drinking.   Knock.   Motherhood.   Knock, knock.   Recovery.   KNOCK.

With a sigh, I push sleep aside.  What is it?  I say, not unkindly.

I lie quietly in the dark and let them in.    This is how it happens, sometimes.   These thoughts will not leave me alone until I sit patiently for a spell, and listen .

When you're asked to describe who you are at the core of you, they say, you reply that you're a mother in recovery. 

Is that all?  I reply.   You woke me up at 3:15am with this earth shattering bit of information?

It's 6:15am east coast time, they say, in their own defense.   And you need to think about this:  you're a mother in recovery.   It's important. 

But there's nothing new here!   I whine.    What am I doing awake at this hour? 

You'll see, they reply.  

 And, eventually, I do.

~~~~

A mother.   In recovery.    The two things that are the core of me, that sustain me, give me hope and meaning, are the two things I fought hardest against.

Being a mother did not come easily to me.   I didn't give birth to a child and flowing maternal instincts simultaneously; it was a long, hard road.   Motherhood, in a nutshell, scared me.   The world that had felt so certain, so mine, was now fraught with worry and danger, like it was made of glass.   One wrong move and everything would shatter.

The fear I felt was primitive, consuming, and brand new.   And I was going to be a mother for the rest of my life?   Would I ever feel like myself again?   Confident, full of swagger, able to tackle any challenge without reservation?    It didn't seem possible, in the early days, as I looked into my baby girl's eyes and saw pure love.  I didn't know how to give her that kind of love, because I was gripped with fear.  

Drinking was the mortar to the cracks opened up by fear.   Fear of love, fear of loss, fear of not measuring up in this baffling new world of motherhood where the tests were endless and the results never revealed.

I fought getting sober long and hard, because I was terrified.   Terrified of what life would be like if I had to feel that fear all the time, without my anesthesia.   I could not imagine life raw and unedited.  Drinking made me feel in control of the fear, anxiety and uncertainty.   Becoming a mother made me understand just how little control I had over anything, and I never, ever wanted to face how that made me feel.  

In early recovery -  for at least the first entire year of recovery - I had to face that fear head-on.   As I emerged from my self-induced cocoon of darkness and isolation I wondered, yet again: will I ever feel like myself again?   I couldn't drink to create confidence and swagger anymore.  I couldn't drink to find access to love without fear.    And I was going to have to do this for the rest of my life?  

With time I learned to surrender to fear.   I didn't have to be a perfect mother.   I didn't have to think about the rest of my life; I just had to think about today.     I learned that fear won't kill me, that pushing through fear was worth it, because the treasures I have found on the other side are boundless.

I always wrote - I have the dozens of bound journals as evidence of all the endless words that spewed forth.   

It's just that I never had anything to say.  

And now here I am in Los Angeles embarking on an adventure I never could have imagined during those dark days.   I'm here because embracing motherhood and recovery, the two things that filled me with the most fear, have breathed life into me.   I can love without limits; I feel full of creativity, passion and hope.  

Pushing through the fear allowed me to find my writer's pulse.  It was trapped deep inside me for so many years, and now beats out a slow, steady rhythm.

I'm here to commune with creative, passionate women - to pull up a chair, listen and learn.  I'm new to the table, but I'm no longer afraid that I don't measure up, because I was the one creating the endless tests where the results were never revealed.  

When fear was my co-pilot, I didn't stand a chance.

~~~~

There, you see?  the thoughts say.  Don't you feel better?   Now lay your head back down and rest.  

You have a big day.

My New Drug of Choice

Last evening my husband threw his back out.  Actually, it's a back spasm - he wasn't lifting anything heavy, just using a light sprayer-thingy to coat our porch with some kind of sealer.   He cried out in pain, gripped his back and sank to the floor. 

The pain is awful; I had a back spasm about ten years ago and I remember it well.   He basically can't move.   It was bad enough this morning that we took him to the doctor (getting him in and out of the car was interesting).   She looked him over, diagnosed a spasm, and gave him a prescription for some honking ibuprofen pills and a muscle relaxant.   He was on his way out the door, when she added, "How about I give you a Vicodin prescription, too, just in case?"  

Steve hesitated - he has heard enough horror stories about the addictive nature of Vicodin to be wary - so the doctor continued, with a wink, "It won't do anything to cure the back spasm, but it will trick your brain into thinking you're not in much pain."

This isn't a post about how pain meds are over-prescribed - that's a rant for another time.

We picked up the prescriptions, drove home and maneuvered Steve back into bed.   I brought him his pills, and just the chicka-chicka sound of the tablets rattling in the plastic bottle got my inner addict whispering:  Just take one..  you can slip away for an hour or two.   One won't hurt.  Your back has been sore lately, too.   Wouldn't it be nice to relax, just for a little while? 

It has been a stressful couple of days.   I'm preparing to leave on Thursday for California, to go to the Creative Alliance blogging conference.    I had the past few days mapped out - everything I had to get done to be ready to leave - and life hasn't cooperated with my planning.   I have many jewelry orders to fill, grocery shopping and house cleaning to do, presents to buy for friends' birthday parties that are happening while I'm gone, and tons of scheduling for the kids' activities to figure out.

Today fell apart completely.   I couldn't get to anything on my list, and by 1pm I was a nervous wreck.  

Add to all this the fact that I am an extremely nervous flyer.  I hate airplanes; I always have.   My brain has been in overdrive thinking about the flights, visions of impending doom popping up out of nowhere as I go about my days.   One of the reasons I'm going to this conference is I don't want to let my fears cripple me.   I refuse to miss an amazing experience like Creative Alliance because I'm afraid to fly.

So, needless to say, a muscle relaxant or a Vicodin or two sounded downright necessary to this addict's brain.

I know the addict voice well; she calls to me when life feels like death by a thousand paper cuts, when the stress of day-to-day life feels unmanageable:  you can't get to everything you need to do, so do the next best thing - ESCAPE.

An interesting thing happened, though.   I danced with the idea of taking a pill (or two, or seven) - I let myself really see it.  I pictured washing down a muscle relaxant and then floating on the couch in a sea of calm.    I closed my eyes and envisioned how good it would feel as the tension left my body, my shoulders unknotted and my screaming thoughts faded away.   

I didn't want to.   I tried - I really did - to convince myself that of course I wanted to -- I'm programmed to escape, for crying out loud.     But my addict voice never took root; she sounded like a whiny toddler throwing a tantrum because she wanted a cookie before dinnertime.   She seemed puny, manageable, petty.

I thought of the doctor's words to Steve, about how Vicodin tricks your brain into thinking it isn't in much pain.  

I realized that I can do that trick now without medication.     My drug of choice is acceptance.

My day wasn't going as planned, not even close, but it was going just fine.  I will get on a plane on Thursday and go to California, whether or not the house is spotless or all the laundry is done.    The kids will make it to their activities - I'll figure it out, I know I will - and if they miss one or two will the world stop revolving?    I have tomorrow to finish up the jewelry orders.   Or tonight.    There is plenty of time, it's just that my brain likes to think everything is a crisis - especially if things don't go as planned. 

I don't need a pill to trick my brain into thinking everything is okay;  everything IS okay.

These infuriating little details were the sort of thing that used to crush me, make me feel worthless, pitiful, less-than.   Other mothers can handle it all, what's wrong with me?  was my dark angel's battle cry.   My addictive voice would bang that drum until I gave in.    

Even the fear of flying, although it feels very real and very scary to me, is another way the addict voice tries to bang her way in.   In the past, flying was always accompanied by several drinks - it felt medically necessary, dammit.   Now I have meditations on my iPod, difficult crossword puzzles and good books to help me escape.   That addict voice wants my fear of flying to be the back door I left unlocked so she can sneak in, undetected.

But she is a whiny, puny, outraged toddler, and I am a sober woman of dignity and honor. 

She is no match for me.

Mosaic

As the day winds down, I count the minutes - the seconds - until the kids' bedtime.

It's Saturday, and bedtime isn't until 8pm.   I feel mildly pleased with myself; Steve is away until tomorrow, and I managed to fill one whole Saturday without any screen time or bored fighting. 

I made a promise to myself this morning, that I would spend the whole day engaged with the kids.   I wouldn't try to clean the house, make jewelry orders, poke around on the internet, or shoo them away as I talk to friends on the phone.  

Today I rooted myself firmly in the present, in their world, instead of asking them to cling to the fringes of mine. 

Now it's 7:45pm, though, and the edginess is creeping in.  I'm desperate for some alone time, and I can't wait until they are tucked into bed so I can curl up on the couch with my book and soak in the silence.

They wriggle into their jammies, brush teeth, and scrounge around for favorite stuffed animals and blankets.  I read a story, fetch first one glass of water and then another, adjust the lighting to perfection, do a monster check, and give equal amounts of kisses and hugs.  It's 8:30pm by the time I finally make it downstairs, exhausted.

I flop on the couch and crack open my book with a contented sigh.   A mere thirty seconds later I hear crying, and Greta shouting, "Mooooom.   Finn's crying, and I can't sleep!"

A white-hot rage flashes through me, races up my legs and arms and into my chest, making my heart pound.   Without moving off the couch, I yell upstairs that they both better go to sleep.   OR ELSE.

Greta falls silent, but Finn won't stop crying.

I storm up the stairs and angrily swing my head into their room, ready to pounce.   Finn is sitting on his bed, his favorite stuffed swan tucked under one arm, and his worn-out blankie under the other, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Momma?" he sniffs pitifully, "will you west wif me?"

I'm so tired and frustrated that I'm shaking, my heart iced over, immune to his tears.    I close my eyes and count to five, and then I say, as calmly as I can, "It's late.  You need to go to sleep, and I have things to do downstairs.   Go to bed, Finn."

He hangs his head, sobbing silently.   "So you won't west wif me?   Just for a minute?" 

But I don't want to!  I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to!!!!   my inner toddler screams.   I was there for you ALL DAY and I'm TIRED.   I just want to read my book!  There's never any time for ME!

Without warning, I'm hit with a memory.    It isn't one specific memory but rather a mosaic of memories, made up of sharp red, craggy black and somber grey: countless moments scurrying away from a crying child - or two - because I had to start drinking, start blurring the sharp edges of my mind, start erasing the fear, start edging away from the center of their love. 

I crawl into bed beside Finn, and he snuggles into me, hiccupping softly.

"Why can't you sleep?" I whisper.    His little ear is bright pink and fuzzy around the edges. 

"I don't know," he sighs.  "I just felt like I needed you."

"It's okay," I reply.  "I'm here."

He nods silently, his eyes already closed.   I run my fingertips up and down his spine, and he reaches around and curls his fingers around my other hand.   His grip is warm and firm.   The room is still; the only sound is Greta's soft snoring as she sleeps.

A few minutes later his grips loosens and his breathing slows.   He is asleep.

I close my eyes, lay my head down next to his, and inhale his salty-sweet boy smell.  

I silently add one more glittering tile to my new mosaic of memories, one that glows with soft blue, sun splashed yellow and warm pink.  

Rearview Mirror

A very wise therapist I saw for a while used to ask me the same question at the start of every session.

"What's the same and what's different?" 

I haven't been feeling very inspired to write these days.    In an attempt to dig out some thoughts, I clicked back in my archives to find out where my head was this time last year.   I never look back through my old posts; I'm not sure why, exactly, but I think it's because I'm overly critical of my own words and I can't read them objectively.

As I was poking through October of 2009, my therapist's question played through my head:  what's the same and what's different? 

This time last year my husband and I were in the thick of deciding whether or not to go on Oprah to discuss my alcoholism and the roles denial and secrecy played in my addiction.    We agonized over this decision, thinking that it could either be the best or worst experience of our lives.   Of all the scenarios we discussed, the idea that it simply wasn't that big of a deal never occured to us.    It was an amazing experience, to be sure, but it wasn't life altering.   It brought some healing between my husband and me, which was amazing, and caused disruptions in other aspects of my life that I couldn't have foreseen.    Not too long after the show everything had settled back into a normal pattern.

As I read through older posts, I realized that one of the biggest differences between now and last year is that I'm better able to keep things right-sized.   Last year (in the first two years of sobriety, actually) everything was loud, bright, and more significant; a bad day was never just a bad day, it was a harbinger of everything going wrong.    A good day gave me expectations that were unreasonable - I tried desperately just to hold onto whatever was working so well.    I put everything into a category:  good, bad, horrible, wonderful, scary, sad.   Nothing ever just was.  

Maybe that's why I wrote so much about trying to live in the moment.   I wanted the ability to let things go so badly that I was over thinking, over analyzing, paralyzing my ability to simply let things be.

Recently I was talking with some recovery friends about serenity, another concept that had always felt elusive to me.    Surrender and serenity were two things I wanted - oh, did I want them - that I attacked achieving them with an Olympic athlete's zeal.   

During this conversation it hit me:  serenity had woven its way into my life, snuck in the side door, slipped under the covers undetected.     What I had been feeling was bored.     No big highs, no big lows.  Just, well, maintenance.

I was confusing boredom with balance.  

I'm in maintenance mode for a lot of things, now.   My weight and my sobriety are two of the most obvious, but also in my marriage, my parenting.    I'm no longer riding the scary swells of the first year or so of sobriety; things are settling down, taking on a comfortable predictability.  

I was never good at predictablity.   Along with an addiciton to alcohol, I was addicted to chaos.  I was happiest, I thought, when there was some kind of drama going on, some knotty problem that needed unraveling.

At some point along the line, I stopped trying so damn hard to force things to yield to my almighty will, everything landed where it was meant to land.   Balance worked its way into my life, slowly and silently.

Perhaps this is why I'm struggling with writing.  It's easier for me to be inspired when things aren't going well; the tortured artist kind of deal.    Finding inspiration when things are clicking along at a safe speed is harder for me.    But balance, maintenance, is a gift I would have given anything to have during the darkest days of my drinking.  I don't want to forget this truth.

So, what's the same and what's different?   It's important to stop and ask myself that, on occasion, because if I don't it's easy to miss progress, or stay stuck in patterns that aren't working for me. 

And right now?   Now isn't good or bad.   It simply is. 

The Comfort of Strangers

I don't talk about recovery meetings on this blog, and for good reason.  What happens in those meetings is sacred, and it's not my business to share the things I hear there.

But I have talked about how telling my truth to a roomful of strangers saved my life.    I dragged myself into a recovery meeting, broken, weary and desperate.   I didn't plan on speaking; I didn't want to be there at all.   I was going to get the heat off, to appease the people who loved me and avoid the dire consequences if I didn't get help.

I went into the room, plunked down in the back and crossed my arms, prepared to despise everything and everyone.

It didn't work out that way.  Before I could stop myself, my hand went up and I said my name.   And then I said I was an alcoholic.

I'd love to say the clouds parted, beams of light came streaming down and I never drank again.    It didn't work out that way, either.

But a seed was planted that night.   Sitting in that room for an hour, listening to others' stories, I felt companionship and understanding.   I felt safe, for the first time in a long time.    My life was full of baffled loved ones asking questions that started with "how could you..." and "why don't you .." and "why can't you..."    In that room I was surrounded by people who understood, and it broke through my pain and denial just enough to bring me back again.   And again.    I went until I wanted to be there, and nobody was more surprised than me when that happened.

These people I had never met before, who had nothing invested in me, who didn't want a thing for me except my own peace of mind, started me down the road to sobriety.

Something special is happening over at Crying Out Now.    People are stepping forward, telling their truths, surrendering their fears, and comforting strangers are responding in kind.    I started Crying Out Now seven months ago, and now co-moderate it with Robin and Val, two amazing women in recovery.   It is a place for people to come tell their truths, anonymously if they wish, without judgment or fear of reprisal.    

Some people who submit their story are still drinking, unsure if they have a problem or not and simply thinking out loud.   Others are newly sober or coming back after a relapse and are struggling and in need of support.    Some people have been in recovery for a while, and just want to share some of their experience, strength and hope. 

The power of hearing someone tell their truth, not because they have all the answers but because they don't, is undeniable.   The comfort offered by people who have been there, or who are there themselves, is healing.

The internet affords its own version of anonymity.   You can be anyone you want to be, and lots of people use this power for evil instead of good.     At Crying Out Now the ability to be anyone - just another face in a sea of faces - has the power to heal.   For many people, it's the first place they have ever talked about their struggles or fears.   It's a first step, a planted seed, a small break in the isolation of suffering.

I don't mean to imply that telling your story online is the equivalent of going to a recovery meeting.    But that same spark is there, that feeling of busting through to the truth, the breath-holding step of finally, FINALLY, just getting it out there and letting it go.  

Crying Out Now is not about telling people that they need to get sober, or how to get sober.   Where people go and what they do with their truth is up to them.    But it's a safe place to open up and shed a small beam of light into the darkness.

If you're struggling with alcoholism or addiction, or if you're in recovery and want to share some of your story, please submit a post to cryingoutnow@gmail.com.   We want to hear from you.    Robin, Val and I are the only ones with access to the email, and you can create an anonymous hotmail or yahoo email account if you don't want anyone to know who you are. 

Or just come lend some words of encouragement and support.   You can comment anonymously, too, and your words will help someone feel less alone, less afraid.     

Please help us spread the word about Crying Out Now, because the comfort of strangers has the power to heal.