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The Reunion Report

July 25, 2010 in Uncategorized | 2 comments

We stressed over it for months (wait – you were stressing along with me, right?), and it’s finally done. My 20-year class reunion has come and gone. Did I have the wrinkle-free baby face of my high school years? No. But somebody said I finally look old enough to drive a car, so I’ll take that as a compliment.

Did all the guys who didn’t ask me to prom (that would be all of them) fall down and start crying at their missed opportunity? No.* (Although they could have been doing it in the mens room – I didn’t check in there.)

Did my best friends change their minds and go with me? No. (Skanks.)

Did anyone else wear sequins to the “casual chic” event? Um, no. But I got a lot of compliments on my dress, so that should count for something. See for yourself.

I know, I know, my photographer sucks. But he is low paid and I can abuse him, so I keep him around.

Favorite reunion moment: Upon my stating that I was sober, one of my oldest and dearest friends responding, “Since when?? You sure weren’t sober at the beginning of the night!” Um, yeah. That actually happened.

Worst moment: Stating on FaceBook that I hated I’d missed seeing my friend Steven, and them having him reply, “You did see me. You hugged me.” Yikes. Did I mention I am nearly blind in dim light since my Lasik surgery? (And no damn way was I going to wear my driving glasses that night.) I know you’re seriously questioning whether I fell off the wagon, but I assure you I was sober. Which makes this next statistic so sad…

Number of people who saw my panties: Countless, when I bent over to pick up these graduation hats and then realized I was out in front of the group picture and basically flashed everyone. The good news? I went to high school with all of them, so they’ve all seen my panties before from one klutzy move or another. (Thanks for nothing, 10 grueling years of ballet!)

Number of old boyfriends guilt-tripped: Sadly, only one. He was the only guy I dated who showed up (I think. I told you I couldn’t see in there). But I made the best of it and gave him a full 30 minutes of lecturing. And I got an apology, which just goes to show you that carrying around a grudge for 20-something years can be quite rewarding in the end. Only a couple dozen more to hunt down and berate – let’s hope some come to the 30-year!

Number of people who offered to pay for some of my years of therapy: One, and he apologized for calling me “Toby” my entire senior year, a nickname he gave me after we saw a hermaphrodite named Toby on “Sally Jesse Raphael” one night. (Now if only those people who called me “Stick” would offer to reimburse me as well…)

Did I get the closure I was seeking? I don’t know. I don’t know what I was looking for. But there was a lot of love in that room, and nobody seemed to hate me as I had feared, so I’m going to put it in the “W” column.

*Special thanks to my friend Brian, who is a year younger than I and took me to my prom after all the loser senior boys asked other girls. (Although I would be really pissed if I found out he wrote that off his taxes as a charitable donation.)

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The Bunny Killers Next Door

June 17, 2010 in Uncategorized | 4 comments

After wallowing in self pity for a day, I’m feeling much better. Oh, and also, I started my period. This makes me believe the sudden return of what I feared was the Evil Depression was actually just hormones. Oops. But in writing about life in recovery, I’d be less than honest if I said every day was great and I never have my doubts, so that’s why you get the occasional whiney, me-me-me stuff.

On a totally different topic, my neighbors are removing all the trees from their backyard. We’ve had chainsaws roaring around here for two days. It sounds awfully similar to the hum of the vuvuzelas at the World Cup. It’s so loud, I can hardly make out the sobs of a deer family who has just lost its home. I think I hear a few bunny screams as well.

For my part, I have a banner across our house that says, “Displaced Animals Welcome Here!” Also, I’m doing my best to stay positioned on my back deck looking down my nose at the earth-hating neighbors. I don’t know if they’ve noticed me yet. Tomorrow I may scream “Chipmunk Killers!” every time they leave the house (unless that seems un-neighborly.) In their defense, they could be building solar panels or a windmill back there for all I know. It would be unlike me to wait until I have all the facts before passing judgment though, so I think my plan to spray simulated animal blood on their house is still the way to go for now, don’t you?

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Today I Have a Secret

June 16, 2010 in Uncategorized | 5 comments

Some days I don’t drink because I’m an alcoholic in recovery and I know that to have a drink would be to miss my daughter’s childhood, to wreck my marriage, to lose everything that is important to me. (Maybe not the first drink, but who knows if I’d be able to stop once I got going again?) Other days, like today, I don’t drink because I won’t let myself leave the house. I know when I’m in this state of mind that just going to the grocery store – the store where I could buy the wine that would help me breathe right now – is a challenge and a risk for me. At some point, an alcoholic has to get on with her life and face her fears. I suppose.
Everybody says I’m doing great. People are proud of me. Most days I’m proud of myself. But then there are days like today when I don’t think I’m good for anything and I get so frustrated and scared that it’s always going to be like this, that I will always be beating back the crazy ME from taking over the sane ME again.
I should get a job. I need to quit hankering with this book idea and just go back to work. But an intense fear grips me every time I think of going back to an office job. Just because I had a bad experience in the past doesn’t mean I’ll have another breakdown. I mean, I was successful for many years before going over the edge and, even then, my coworkers never knew anything about it. My work was never compromised, my commitments were always met. No one suspected I was cracking from the inside out. God, just thinking about it makes me tense up.
I thought I’d figured out what I wanted to do with my life when I began writing. I really thought I could help other women like myself. But there is always the small voice asking, “But what if nobody cares?” and “What if I’m not good enough?” and “Who appointed you to save the world?” and then I get scared, scared, scared.
I’ve lived with fear my whole life, most often letting it make my decisions for me. It was easier when I could medicate it. Now the only thing I can have for an anxiety attack is a paper bag. Most days I am fine to face the fear armed with only my brown paper bag. But just not today.

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Nursing Old Wounds

May 15, 2010 in Uncategorized | 1 comment

Is it me, or is it that everyone I know is totally effing insane? I swear I have people in my life who would criticize even my suicide note (if I ever wrote one) and be mad that I didn’t have the forethought to remove my pearls before pulling the trigger. (Not that I would ever shoot myself. M doesn’t know how to remove stains and my blood would be hanging around the house for the next 50 years or so, making it really awkward when G wants to have friends over.)

I guess I’ve had a bad couple of days. The latest insult was this morning. With the help of a friend, whom I will call Jane, I summoned the courage to go back to my old treatment center for alumni weekend. Jane and I planned to meet in the parking lot prior to today’s workshop so neither of us had to walk into that place alone. I didn’t see Jane when I got there, but I saw my old therapist who was speaking at the event and we walked in together. Who better to have by your side when you’re having a panic attack than your therapist, right? Anyway, I immediately noticed all the “We [heart] Our Nurses!” banners, and wondered what the hell that was all about. I walked up to the registration table and asked a counselor about it. “Hey, I remember you from a few years ago!” he said. Yes, of course you do. I freaking lived here for, like, EVER. I inquired about the nursing signs, and since when do nurses get all the love? He responded by telling me that today’s workshop is for professionals only. (Thinking back on it, I do recall seeing the word “professional” in the brochure. But hellloooooo, have you met me? I can do professional in my sleep, and I’ve got a closet full of old Kasper suits to prove it.)
“Are you trying to get free therapy?” he teased me.
“No, I think I left my sweater here and I was just stopping in to see if anyone found it.” (Don’t be a smart-ass with me, as I am a master.)
He said I was welcome to stay and listen. I told him that I’d already paid beaucoups bucks to the therapist speaker, so I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.
I tried to call Jane to tell her not to come, but her phone was turned off. Strange, since the program was about to begin. Instead, I called M and told him I would be home at lunchtime, not the late afternoon as I’d planned.
“Why? Isn’t it all about addiction and recovery? Can’t you benefit from it even if you’re not a nurse?”
“I’m not invited. I don’t know anybody here and I feel like I don’t belong. What if they ask nurse-y questions or something?
“Just stay. It’ll be good.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH JUST BEING HERE! DON’T TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD DO!” (Okay, maybe a little dramatic, but come on. This took me back to the first day I was there when I was on hiatus from Crazytown.)
“You’re right. Do whatever you want.” (That’s more like it.)

I sat down in the auditorium and my therapist began to speak about anger. He said that our personalities were formed by the time we were 5, and then asked us what lessons we’d learned about anger back then. Um, that it’s okay for adults to be mad but not for kids? That it’s fine for adults to throw things at each other and scream and hit and use bad words, but not children? That we shouldn’t express anger? That we should withhold affection when we’re angry? That we should say horrible things about the person causing the anger? That we should be quiet and stay out of the way so people don’t get mad at us?

I started getting antsy with the topic because, well, it was making me angry. Since I have a black belt in suppressing anger, I began to look around the room and zeroed in on a lady sitting two rows in front of me. The back of her head had a bald center, and then big, frizzy tornado rolls pouring out every direction from there. It looked like a place a squirrel could call home. Or, do you remember that Captain Caveman cartoon? It looked like Cavey’s fur, and she could house any number of small appliances or other necessities in there. I thought about that lady’s hair for a while, and then realized I hadn’t been paying attention to all the anger talk.

I checked my phone and saw I’d missed a call from Jane. I stepped out to meet her in the parking lot. No Jane. I called her back and heard the words I knew were coming.
“I drank,” she said.
“I know.” It’s true; some part of me knew when her phone was off.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.” I said this, but I don’t know if I meant it. Part of me wanted to be a brat and scream, ‘Do you know how hard it was for me to get up and come here today? Do you know I had to take deep breaths the entire 45-minute drive? Do you? DO YOU???” But I didn’t say those things, because I know she knows and I also know that saying those words won’t make anything better. Jane is an alcoholic, like me. Jane has good days and bad days. So do I.

I grabbed my bag and left. I called a girlfriend and she made me laugh my ass off, like she always does. When I got home, I went directly to the chocolate 2-bite cupcakes M got me on clearance yesterday. Today is their expiration date, but my husband clearly believes I’m up to the challenge of consuming a dozen cupcakes within a 24-hour period. I will not prove him wrong. After all, inhaling cupcakes is an excellent way to suppress anger.

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The Downside of Being a High-Functioning Alcoholic

May 11, 2010 in Uncategorized | 6 comments

I have often said that I’m fortunate because I got my drinking under control before I suffered serious consequences.

I was wrong.

I suffer the terrible consequence of lost time. Every day that I knew I needed to do something but didn’t, every moment I wanted out of a snuggle with baby G so I could refill my wine glass, every morning I was cranky with a headache – these are hours and minutes and seconds I wasn’t entirely present, and I can never get them back.

Today was another example of an unknown consequence. Little G is transitioning to pre-K, and the school director told me she’d like to see her have more self-confidence. (Huh? Are we talking about the child who puts on stage shows for M and me every night and tells us how smart and strong she is?) Then the director began to stumble around for the right words, and I could tell she was trying to say something that would be difficult for me to hear. I wanted to scream at her, “Just say it!” the way Molly Ringwald does to Andrew McCarthy in “Pretty in Pink” when he tells her he’s not taking her to the prom. But I didn’t because that would have been the old me. Instead, I waited patiently for what came next.

“She was affected when you went to the hospital, but she’s coming out of it now. We’d like to see her gain some confidence, but it’s partially just her DNA.”

I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. Please God, don’t let me cry in this woman’s office.

This is the first I’ve heard of my rehab stint affecting G negatively. She didn’t even ask where I was while I was gone. I thought I’d gotten help when she was young enough that she’d never know.

The DNA is something I can’t help, but I blame myself anyway. Please don’t let her be like me. Why can’t she be normal like M? Please let her be confident that she is smart and pretty and funny and talented and sweet and all those things I always wanted to be. Please don’t let her question her every move. She’s not even 4 yet, for crying out loud.

I am not going to obsess over this. If I hadn’t gotten help when I did, she could be Mommy-less today. I am a much better example now than I could have been at any other time in my life.

I love my little girl. All of you moms know what I’m talking about. The guilt I feel is endless, even though I realize that’s not a healthy or productive emotion. It sits in my throat and makes it hard for me to breathe.

Today I’m feeling the unforeseen consequences from the years I tried not to feel anything. I suppose this is another rung on the recovery ladder, but today it sucks.

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