This morning when I was pouring my first cup of coffee, I realized how much I had been looking forward to it. The smell, the warmth as it slides down my throat, the little kick…
Uh-oh.
As an addict I am always looking forward to something, always anticipating the sensation that hits when the [insert drug of choice] first nuzzles our brains. Any addict or alcoholic can describe it for you, in brilliant detail. It’s as if the addicted brain releases just a fraction of feel-good chemicals to ensure that we’ll keep doing whatever we have to do to get the rest.
Recovery teaches the danger that can hide in this, the danger that we’ll find ourselves in a place where we’re never in the now, never experiencing a moment as it really is. Anticipation is most useful for the first few notes of the bridal march, the last half mile of the marathon. It’s sort of like trading in a roller coaster for a scenic drive: riveting ups and stomach-churning downs for steady and manageable and pleasant.
I never have been good at living in the moment. It’s too scary, too raw, too precarious to actually experience life as it comes, however it comes. It’s something I work on every day. I’m told that worrying about my morning coffee is overreacting (I am, after all, a founding member of Overreactors Anonymous) but it’s okay. Where I come from there’s a saying, advice to “arm for bear and hope for bunnies.” As with many things Southern it doesn’t completely make sense but the gist of it comes through.
So I’m trying. I’m working on it. I’m getting used to the scary, the raw, the precarious; learning to appreciate the quiet and known. The moments. It’s always about the moments.
Filed under: family, Life on Life's Terms, Monthly Record, Recovery, Take me home
Dear Disease,
A friend who is an ER doctor says that she prefers her specialty because she always knows exactly what her primary goal is: keep the patient alive. To ease pain, diagnose illness, or dress a wound, that’s important, but it all comes second to her prime directive. Keep the patient alive. The first months out of rehab felt like that to me: stay sober. Everything else was icing, had to be icing, because it took all I had to just address my primary goal: stay sober.
The past month has taken me beyond that one clear goal out into the world of shaping-up-my-act. I’ve gone back to work, had a birthday, navigated off-limits medication, started my spring project, had bad days and some very, very good ones. I’ve started some healthy habits. I’ve measured and recorded and kept track and made lists and other basic things that must have been taught the day I skipped class in People School. We go walking in our neighborhood on Saturday nights, and I have loved it, loved the quiet time with our two unruly hounds and our little girl zipping around on her scooter. I joined a Moms of Preschoolers group. I’ve gone to the movies with a grownup friend and we’ve met friends of Mimi’s at parks for playdates.
It is scary out here, working without a net for the first time. I am no longer in full-fledged crisis, no longer just a patient. I am a wife, a mother, a sister, an employee, a friend, a daughter. Now it is time to apply what I have learned, to claim these identities and to show myself and others what I can do with them. I am learning as I go. It is definitely on-the-job training.
In the last month I’ve had moments as a mom that I wish I could bottle up and keep, and moments I so wish I could live over. I have had moments when I felt like a good wife, and moments when I was keenly aware of my shortcomings as one. I have done some things well and others poorly and in half a year I’ve compiled enough experiences to sift through them and look for patterns. I can start to build on what works and retool what doesn’t. I can ask myself why I hurt someone and can have a reasonable expectation of learning from that and not doing it again. I can mend: I can mend me, and I can attempt to mend damage I have done.
Two strange things just happened. Yesterday, Jon and Mimi and the dogs and I were in a big pile on the living room floor and I suddenly exclaimed: “I love our house!” Jon looked at me as if I’d just announced that I love the Republican party. Since Mimi came home I have done nothing but complain about our too [small, old, hot, cold, etc. etc.] house. Then this morning we were racing around, communicating in short bursts when we passed each other in our various tasks, and I was starting to quiver with anxiety. Jon stopped and asked if I was all right. Stressed, I said. And I have yet another cold. And my shoulder hurts. But I’m happy, I said. I don’t know why, but I am happy. Right here, right this minute, standing here in my kitchen, I FEEL HAPPY.
And for now, that is all I need to know.
Love,
Robin
When Mimi came home, she was riddled with health issues; none too serious but several that could have become so. In addition to the ailments common to orphans she had weird things like rickets. She had no abdominal muscle tone, could barely sit up on her own, and could not crawl.
Mimi and I spent our first few months together visiting doctors, therapists, support groups. Our state has good programs for children and mothers, from nutrition to child development. I signed up for everything. One day I ended up in a classroom surrounded by teenage boys learning to change diapers. While it was an engaging afternoon — they were really cool boys — it wasn’t really what we needed.
Today, she’s caught up, as far as can be determined. The one lasting complaint is exotropia. Her eyes drift outward when she’s tired or upset. She’s a champ about it; what she lacks in coordination she makes up for in heart. It affects her ability to learn to read, so we’re working hard to resolve it as soon as possible, while hoping to avoid surgery. She has glasses, which she detests, and wears an eye patch for a while each day. For some reason this is a source of conflict for Jon and me. He can never remember the patch and I can never seem to stop myself from complaining that I’m the only one hunting down missing glasses and chasing her around with the patch.
The other night she was particularly resistant, so I decided that we’d wear patches, too, to show our support. We all slapped them on and went into the living room to watch a DVD. Whoa. Our depth perception disappeared, which made the characters on the screen appear to pass through each other instead of walking by each other. We found it easier to eat popcorn with our eyes shut than to try to make sense of our hands moving it toward our mouths. Trippy. When we walked across the room, we lurched and swayed like drunks. Mimi seems to handle it better than we did — she can walk and eat with no apparent problems — and she got quite a giggle watching us. I just hope she doesn’t think that’s going to be our regular Friday night fun.
Filed under: Life on Life's Terms
The short answer: they are going to need so much help a month from now, six months from now, a year. Our strategy for giving to disaster relief is to wait until the initial efforts fade and to contribute then. Every dollar, dime, and penny will be needed. With limited funds to contribute, we just wait for the next wave, because there is always a next wave.
Oh, Haiti.
Nothing is as apocalyptic as a third-world country in a disaster.
Growing up in Florida, earthquakes were the stuff of movies and news reports. We got hurricanes. And with hurricanes, the damage is primarily structural; someone nicknamed Florida “the Blue Tarp State” after the clusters of waterproof tarps covering damaged roofs. My mom has lost her roof twice and had it repaired dozens of times.
I was completely unprepared for the sheer human misery I witnessed when an earthquake struck near where we were travelling in Turkey. We were there and we were uninjured, plus we had our own water filter, so we tried to help; we were essentially useless. Fallen buildings lay like flattened layer cakes, or tilted into absurd sculptures. I remember carrying what seemed like millions of buckets of water back and forth from wells to refugee camps. When it was all said and done, more than 17,000 people were dead. When I returned home and opened my suitcase, my clothes still held the smell. I washed them several times and still threw most of them away.
I imagine Haiti is like that, with the added misery of an island country with only one viable airport. I’ve heard of aid workers stranded on nearby islands, unable to get transport in, while survivors crows the airport and docks, trying to get transport out. This morning on the radio I heard a request for surgeons specializing in crush injuries. Dear God.
A relief coordinator was interviewed in Port-Au-Prince. She said that there were field hospitals everywhere, so many they clotted the landscape, but that there were not enough doctors or nurses. Food and medicine were rotting in ships at anchor off the coast, unable to make shore. Hundreds of victims sleep in the streets, too terrified of aftershocks to enter a building.
I followed news of the Turkish earthquake for a long time, worlds away in my warm Chicago apartment. The news continued for a long time: hundreds of city blocks had to be excavated, re-wired and plumbed, new building codes established… so much before people even had places to live. Not to mention schools, commerce, and long-term care of the injured and sickened.
I remember the calls going out for more aid. I remember being pretty tapped out by then and wishing i could send more.
After that I changed my strategy. Everything is needed; I am certainly not suggesting that you don’t send that donation. I just know that there will be needs after my pocket is emptied, so I want to save for then. For whatever reason, I seem to focus on the longer term effects. I volunteered with the Red Cross several weeks after Katrina hit New Orleans, when the first cadres of exhausted volunteers finally had to go home. I know that they could still use financial help in New Orleans. Despite being part of the most developed nation on earth, more than four years after the storm hit the city is still rebuilding. And will be.
As will Haiti. They need us today, and they will need us tomorrow.
And the next day. And the next.
Oh, Haiti.
Filed under: Life on Life's Terms
This is the best representation I can think of to illustrate the condition my house was in when I got home last week. Yes, that is syrup. Yes, it’s in the cleaning cabinet.
The weight bench in the living room makes slightly more sense; I couldn’t step onto the elliptical machine if it didn’t have that little TV attached. Wait — we don’t have TV*.
Add the two inches of desert dust on everything, the powerfully shedding dog, the introduction of our two months’ gear and all of our Christmas detritus into the musty bachelor pad climate and you’ve got quite the challenge. I’ve washed and organized and dusted and swept and vacuumed and there is a basket of backed up laundry on the living room coffee table that would scare small children. Mimi won’t go in the room.
I’m glad to say it’s now a bit more under control, but oh, has it tested me. Have I mentioned that we live in a mouse house? That is 120 years old? And that Jon has been remodeling the one and only bathroom for 14 months? That was a joke in my family this summer: that brushing our teeth in the kitchen sink was what put me over the edge and with that in mind Jon was SURE to have it finished by the time we returned. Guess where we brushed our teeth this morning?
I’m led to all sorts of soul searching: have I done myself in with my own high maintenance (Jon’s point) or have I done myself in by not stating my needs clearly and charting a plan to attain them (my point). Either way, here we are. I’ve missed the southeast terribly, and protested having no room and only one bathroom but have been cowed by Jon’s assurances that nothing could be worse for him and my continued desire to do so is the height of selfishness.
One doesn’t need to be a shrink to realize that this is a colossal power struggle, and one which I have let nearly destroy me. I mean this emphatically: it is no one’s fault but my own that I am where I am, and all I can really do is own it and move forward in a healthier way. I hope that doesn’t sound like a cop-out.
I can promise, look you in the eye and pinky-swear, that I am not peeling off my skin and airing my issues for all the Internet to see in search of pity or forgiveness. I suppose if I were to say I ask anything of you, it would be exactly what I’ve always gotten from the Internet: a better understanding, through your information and your opinions.
Addiction is said to be as much a spiritual disorder as physical and mental. In fact, my spiritual landscape was deemed most wanting by my therapists in treatment. I’ve been tackling that hard, as hard as I know how to do anything. I am well aware that were I more spiritually fit I would not even yearn to do anything that would be against my husband’s wishes; it would not even occur to me to think of myself before him. Were I more spiritually fit I would not have felt so unloved, so discarded, that I allowed my heart to stray. Oh, the horrid mess I have created.
That is a mess that is going to take a long time to fix, if I even can. At least this mess of a house can be tackled. I’m going at it room by room. I started with Mimi’s room, which is the loveliest and most serene in the house.
Then, I straightened out the office, which truth be told is really my office. It’s calm and peaceful, painted a gentle chiffon yellow, with a water fountain that my mother has had since 1976. It’s beautiful, hand-tossed pottery, a bowl that I have filled with seashells and rocks I’ve collected in our travels. Plus the one Mimi walked in with yesterday.
This morning I sat and worked in the early morning sunlight (it is made of an old porch and has windows on three sides!) while Mimi fingerpainted in the kitchen on her new Melissa and Doug easel.
Sometimes the simple pleasures must get us through.
Filed under: daybreaker, Life on Life's Terms, NaBloPoMo, Recovery is hard
…but not quite yet. We don’t know each other well enough and, frankly, I’m afraid of what you will think of me. Put another way: I think I know what you will think of me, and I am afraid I could not handle that.
Yesterday, I found a note in my toiletries bag. I “heart” you, B-Day Girl! was scribbled on a piece of hotel notepaper, the kind they stick under the phone. My heart recognized the note first, and my stomach took a flip. Then my head caught up and I broke out in a cold sweat.
Last year on my birthday, I was with someone I loved and who loved me. Perhaps this last wasn’t quite true, but I fully believed it — so it was my reality. And I was happy. Content with my vision for the future, with Mimi, love, my career, a lovely home, and liberal doses of family and friends.
At the time, I didn’t have a single one of those things, not really. I was clinging to each by a gossamer thread, begging the wind to not blow too hard and pull it all apart.
Of course, it did. Three months later, my marriage was in shambles; my career destroyed; my home — well, I was living in the hospital by then; my daughter was with my sister, separated from both me and her father; my only contact with family was on one of the two phones made available during three tightly controlled periods a week; friends — none; and my love?
Let’s just say, for the moment: things had changed greatly from when he’d written my birthday note.
I’m not sure why I found the note yesterday, the day before the last day of the last year of the decade. This is the decade for which I can probably count the number of nights I went to sleep without a sedative on two hands. The days, in the last few years, don’t number many more than that. So it is safe to say that it was much easier to feel happy and content… or “happy” and “content” — before this past May.
For right now, it’s enough to know I handled finding that note without drugs or alcohol. And even more: I know there won’t be anymore notes like that, notes with sweet words tethered to nothing.
This is where I draw some connection to a recovery concept, such as ‘progress not perfection’, in order to illustrate how I feel about not keeping up with NaBloPoMo. Can’t think of one, so I’ll just spit it out there. I couldn’t do it. No 30-days-in-30-posts. I meant to; I should have thought more closely about the timing. I chose, instead of meeting this goal, to give my attention fully to the happy busyness of the holiday season, spent blissfully among the family I miss all year long. So it goes. A lesson learned (I’ll target November next year), a strategy planned (I’ll still hit 30 posts in 30 days — just not consecutive days), gifts appreciated (I am loving the connections I’m making through NaBloPoMo), and status accepted. I’ll be clearer in my intent next year. For now this is good enough.
What a stunning year it has been. [Cousin] and [fiancee] got married. [Niece] and [littlest sister] are in their one-and-only senior years of high school (and each is an officer in her school, may I add?). Dawn launched a new career. Mimi received her final, can’t-take-it- back American citizenship. For some of us, the changes have been broad; for others, like me, they have been more intrapersonal, but no less instrumental. I am deeply grateful for everyone’s generosity toward me this past year.
I am sharing now because when I did get help, I realized how little I knew. While statistics strongly argue that addiction touches every family on the planet, I couldn’t think of anyone to call in our family who shared my situation, and I really wished I could. So, I am offering to talk to anyone who has a question or is simply curious.
My particular problem is with a class of prescription medication known as benzodiazepines: valium, xanax, and their relatives. I first took them a while ago, to make a long plane flight more palatable. Over time I took them more regularly, to help with sleep (Ambien is in this class of medicine), long flights, stresses… the all-too-typical reasons.
I always got the prescriptions from the same doctor, who assured me I was taking them appropriately; I point that out not to excuse myself, but to illustrate how easy it is to get such things and to underscore the importance of not assuming that doctors can stand guard. I understood what “potentially habit forming” on the label meant, but it wasn’t until I decided to stop that I fully grasped how dependent I was. Trust me here: as custodian of a career, a house, pets, and most importantly, a child, I would never have done this intentionally, and I am all too aware of how insidious this can be.
For me, this has also meant adjusting my ideas of who and what an addict is. I never though about this much, and when I did, I pictured heroin-addled skeletors or cocaine-amped movie stars or bums under bridges clutching brown paper bags (alcohol is the most widespread addiction). I certainly never thought I’d have anything in common with Lindsay Lohan (of Michael Jackson, for that matter). Addiction has a strong genetic component, but heredity alone certainly isn’t responsible: as the saying goes, genetics loads the gun, but environment pulls the trigger. We are not all dirty and dissolute; we come in all ages and with all sorts of bank balances, hobbies, religious views, and degrees (even PhDs, incidentally).
Despite how common it is, it would be disingenuous to pretend that addiction no longer carries a social stigma (so, needless to say, conversations are confidential!). My phone number is 555-555-5555, and my email address is itsownterms@gmail.com. I am happy – eager – to talk, if you’re curious, concerned for yourself or someone else, or just want to write a term paper about it or impress your friends with addiction trivia. Or just want to hear the enthralling story of how I spent my summer vacation.
That story could have taken such a dramatically different turn if I hadn’t landed in a family full of the most amazing and delightful people. There have been many gifts in all of this. For me, the most marvelous gift has been the power of the love our family harbors. People drove for hours to visit me, sat through lectures to learn about addiction, wrote cards and letters of encouragement, prayed with me, and listened to me talk for hours about the same old topic. These are gifts of the most valuable sort, ones wrapped not in bright paper but in the very best kind of love. Most, most, most invaluable: Mimi spent a secure, fun-filled summer with her aunts, grandparents, dad, and cousins. I hope these treasured connections stay with her forever. I feel blessed.
I have decided that the best thing for me is to face this head-on and to not be too ashamed of the basic fact of it, while taking responsibility for where I go from here. Many things in my life will change. Addiction is about so much more than the physical dependence, although that is the first, very hard hurdle to overcome. I do not know exactly what the details of my life will look like from here (and really, who does) but I do know that the textures of life and my daily habits have changed: what I find important and how I nurture that. The rest involves the usual advice we get, and which I never really heeded, to live as healthfully as possible (I sleep more now that I ever have, and I like it), have more fun, deepen spiritual practices (for me, this means a closer connection with God), and attend to friendships and relationships. It is these things, after all, that fortify me against the environmental factors that led, in my case, to medication; addiction thrives on the stressed-out soul.
Step one, for me, is to reach out. You all know me well enough to know that I have made this as academic an exercise as possible. So, I am loaded with addiction frippery, from the ridiculous to the sublime. I think I’m drawing dangerously close to sounding preachy and didactic, so I’ll stop here. I’ll pitch my offer and look forward to any conversations that come my way. Please, the door is open. Take care. Love, Robin
It should have occurred to me before this — that a sleep-deprived three-year-old would behave at least as badly as a sleep-deprived adult. I had been letting Mimi stay up too late at night, and she never slept in in the morning. Her thumb had been popping into her mouth — the best tell that Mimi is down for the count. And of course each night it only got worse, as her crankiness manifested in more vociferous fighting against bedtime.
And me? A week of pneumonia had wrung me out.
I decided to put her to bed at 7. That meant bath by 6, which meant practically eating dinner in the tub. Details could be smoothed out later.
Speaking of details… have I mentioned that she has yet to go to bed on this trip without me beside her? Not the best start, that.
In the bath, Nemo and Dory were squirting each other, and water splurted onto the floor. One warning, two warnings, three… Nemo and Dory were retired. The first Little Einstein popped out to flop around on the bathmat. Before long all four had joined Nemo in the closet. Brushing teeth was a nightmare as she clenched her jaw and fought, managing to squeal through a tightly shut mouth. It occurred to me later that I could have skipped it this night, but at the time — no picking battles for this warrior-mom.
Finally into bed at 7:10. One 20-minute show on DVD, three books, warm milk, kiss and tuck and goodnight. Door propped open, lullabies just right. Of course Mimi was all, whuuuuuuh??
Then: I don’t think so. I sat right outside the door, where she could see me.
And then followed a battle of such a scale that I think I am still repressing the memory. She screamed. She wailed. She hollered. She yodeled. She had to go to the bathroom. (Then again and again.) She was dying of thirst. She was hungry. She was hot. She was cold. She was scared. There was a robot under the bed. There was a robot in the closet. There was a robot in the window. The lullabies were too loud. The lullabies were too quiet. She MUST call daddy. Daddy said call anytime. Isn’t this anytime? It’s an emergency!
Each outburst was accompanied by several — and I do mean several — minutes of sustained, hiccuping hysterics. Even I can do the math. She didn’t quiet down until after 10. But I’m hopeful that we may have turned a corner, here. Each night since it’s gotten a little bit easier.
