Rubble Trouble

I am so grateful that my recovery meeting today focused on a saying I have not yet shared in this space. It’s a wonderful one:

Drop the rock.

The metaphor is fairly simple but the message is profound. Staying sane and sober means letting go of heavy emotional baggage: our resentments, our remorse, our fears and traumas, our character defects. It means asking our Higher Power to give us a hand in unburdening ourselves–which brings to mind another great slogan:

Let go and let God.

Letting go sounds a lot easier than it is. We addictive types can be tenacious when it comes to clutching onto everything that is weighing us down. I suspect there’s a part of me that finds my psychic luggage to be protective, even comforting. I can hide behind it, lean on it. It gives structure to my identity and my life.

It also holds me back and drags me down.

Drop the rock? I have a bulging sack of boulders. They are not unlike the collection of minerals I prized as a child. I like to dump out my bag of big rocks at least once a day and gaze at them. I ponder their essence and their mysteries, hold them in my hands and feel their weight. They enthrall and exhaust me.

One of my favorite collections of metaphorical rocks consists of every important relationship I have had in my life: Friends and family, men and women, even pets. I love to sit myself down with a weighty pile of connection boulders arrayed in front of me and consider each tie. Are we still in touch? Is our association happy and healthy? What occurred and who is to blame? What was my part in our undoing? I gaze with enormous relief at the bonds I know I can still count on, and a few I hope to revive with a call, email or reunion after the relationship-crushing pandemic has been vanquished by vaccines. I contemplate with sorrowful affection those loved ones who have departed this world. Then I turn miserably and remorsefully to face the rubble of my ruined alliances.

How to drop these rocks?

Fortunately my sobriety program is designed to help me let go of the things I need to jettison, no matter how weighty or ancient my emotional burdens.

Our Serenity Prayer, for instance, tells me to accept what I cannot change. For instance, I could stop dragging around memories of hopeless past relationships and torturing myself with them. This lovely incantation also exhorts me to take actions that are available to me. I could, for example, focus on reviving friendships that can be renewed instead of holding onto loneliness or fearing abandonment. More boulders unloaded. Finally, I am encouraged by my sober fellowship to make amends to loved ones I have hurt, instead of endlessly shouldering sentiments of remorse and self-loathing.

Just imagining these helpful actions makes me feel lighter. And ready to collect, in lieu of emotional stones, something airy and spiritual and uplifting.

Like love.

Or prayers.

Or a sense of rebirth.

Or hope that springs.

‘Tis definitely the season for dropping the rock.

Hopping Mad

One of the things I like most about a recovery meeting is the opportunity to tell on me. It is such a relief to unburden myself of guilt, embarrassment or cringing remorse about something I did that was not entirely in the spirit of sobriety.

Similarly, one of my favorite aspects of writing a recovery blog is the chance to amuse my reader with tales of my stumbles, fumbles and bumbles along the sober path.

In fact, as you probably recall if you are a regular visitor to this web address, I have already made numerous confessions about my desire to rule when I am not in charge, control when I have none, intervene when I should hold back, and otherwise refuse to heed the timeless recovery wisdom that is the subject of my writing.

And these tendencies, like all of my character defects, have only been enhanced by the stress and terror of the pandemic. Life is so strange, so unrecognizable, so scary, so out of control in so many ways that I guess I am desperate for some little corner in which I can feel confidently and reassuringly in charge.

You too? I empathize and then some.

Today, for instance, I had a rebellious cranky impulse to ignore the sober wisdom that says:

I have no control over people, places and things.

I was aching to assert authority in some area of my life: lodge a complaint, protest an injustice, get someone to do things my way.

So I called up my son to complain that he had not yet called me. That was a non-starter, a stinking thinking exercise in emotional entrapment. I apologized.

Then I walked my dog whilst hissing expletives behind my mask at everyone on my street who wasn’t masking. Nope, I haven’t practiced acceptance in that situation yet. I felt pretty ashamed of my mutterings.

What to do? I could find no outlet in my quest to right a wrong, feel in charge or throw my weight around.

But then, a miracle happened (recovery wisdom tells me to wait for the miracle and I did).

My Higher Power did for me what I could not do for myself.

HP sent me a tiny wrong I could try to right, a situation in which I might modestly assert my need to effect a just outcome without harming anyone or anything.

After the potty-mouthed dog walk, I retreated to my couch and turned on the television. It was tuned to my favorite shopping channel. And one of my favorite vendors on my favorite shopping channel was being featured.

I stretched out on the sofa, eager to lose myself in a parade of whimsical and colorful housewares and gifts.

But relief from being irritable, restless and discontent was not to be.

Almost immediately I found myself taking umbrage. I recoiled in horror as my favorite vendor held up a pair of ultra realistic chocolate bunnies and a selection of Easter cookies made out of hard (and breakable) resin–and smilingly encouraged consumers to add these treats to their children’s Easter baskets. Shuddering, I envisioned eager little ones on Easter morning reaching for these faux edibles, biting into them and cracking their teeth before their parents could scream “NO” and snatch the evil sweets.

And almost immediately I realized, that there was something I could do to at least register a complaint if not preempt this dangerous scenario. My favorite shopping channel has a 24-hour customer service line where control freaks like myself can call and complain.

So I did. And Brenda the gracious operator was remarkably calm and nice to me as I laid out for her my nightmarish vision and voiced my concerns about the perilous confections.

Hanging up, I felt grateful for the opportunity to humbly express a small portion of the fears, resentments, and grievances I have been collecting during this year of the pandemic.

And I am so grateful for the opportunity to share this little tale with you.

Have a happy (and safe!) spring holiday.

Domestic Reverie

The beginning of March has got me thinking about spring cleaning–as activity and as metaphor.

To an alcoholic, drinking is the one-step solution to tidying and scrubbing all troubling situations and emotions. It’s like doing all of one’s housecleaning with a single bottle of toxic spray that is terrible for oneself, one’s neighbors and the planet.

We drink to take the edge off of sadness and fear, and drink to intensify moments of excitement and joy. When we are caught up in the cycle of alcoholism, we become frozen in the moments when we should take action or practice acceptance. We use chemicals to mute our issues and avoid our duties.

Ultimately, alcohol becomes the only thing we do and our only response to life.

But then, if we are lucky and blessed, before we poison ourselves, before we are beyond rescue, we discover the first sober truth of our recovery:

Nothing is made better by a drink (or a drug).

Next, if we are further favored, we find our way to a sober fellowship that can help us stop our self-destructive cycle and discover new paths to happiness and away from sorrow.

Recovery is a miracle. It pulls us back from physical and emotional collapse and brings hope. But there is work involved. When we jettison our magic elixirs, we need to actually handle our lives. One of the first sayings we learn in sobriety is that:

Recovery is a program of action.

And also:

We must live in the solution.

When I first got sober, solving problems was quite a novel idea. How the heck did you do it? It was pretty overwhelming when I discovered the sheer number of conundrums and troubles I had doused with alcohol every day in lieu of resolution. Now all of life’s little challenges were lined up waiting for newly sober me to deal with them. It was intimidating to say the least.

The good news, however, as I have discovered during almost a decade in recovery, is that living in the solution is not nearly as difficult as it seems at first.

The hardest part is developing a habit of solving problems, and sticking with it. But when I remember that finding a solution is what I need to do, I usually find one. If I add prayer to the equation, and ask my Higher Power to help, I usually find that an answer comes to me. And yes there is a sober saying for that, too:

My Higher Power can do for me what I can’t do for myself.

There are still times when I find myself wanting to stop whenever I encounter a problem and just wail about it, or run and hide, or mute it with a miraculous potion. Then I remember all the good reasons why I gave up my poisonous chemicals. And I rededicate myself to finding healthier and happier formulas for my spiritual housecleaning.

Feminine and Maskuline

No sober saying is more important than this one. Nor more helpful on a daily basis:

Cultivate an attitude of gratitude.

The brilliant thing about being thankful is that it is almost impossible to hold onto resentments and gratitude simultaneously. If you want to banish those grouchy grumpy feelings that might drive you to drink or use drugs, just focus on being grateful. I try to do this every day.

But once in a while I run into a resentment for which I cannot find a thankful antidote. For some reason, that feeling of pique is so deep and so stubborn it defies all attempts at eradication.

That’s how it is with me and men and masks. Anyone who watches the news, and I admit to being a junkie, has got to have seen the endless interviews with doctors talking about how wearing masks around other humans, outdoors or in, will slow the spread of the coronavirus and potentially save thousands of lives. Including yours and mine.

And yet a lot of guys ain’t buying it. They just don’t wanna. For some reason they don’t think masking is manly.

There was a time not too long ago when men in face coverings were cultural icons revered by fellas the world over: Batman and Black Panther, Captain America, Wolverine and Spiderman, to name a few, were comic book and screen heroes of my 1960s childhood. In the 1990s, comedy fans loved swagged-out and uber cool Jim Carrey in The Mask. The early 2000’s saw the return of Batman in the Dark Knight movies. There is no doubt that up until recently a masked man was a hero, the ultimate he man, idolized by males and females alike.

Fast forward to 2021, and a typical day in my neighborhood. I am walking my dog, trying to practice sober acceptance and love toward all others, and it happens. Guy after guy walks by without a mask, or with the mask in his hand or around his neck.

Fellas just aren’t going for this thing. And if you don’t believe me, check out the dozens of media reports about how guys don’t dig the new maskulinity

Now recovery is not supposed to be connected to politics, so I am not going to get political or partisan here. But I have to say that one of the cultural trailblazers in the real-men-don’t-mask movement was, as you know, our newest ex-president, Donald John Trump. He is, in the words of one of his favorite pop groups, the Village People, a macho macho man, and masks do not fit into his money-stacking, golf-club-swinging, big-overcoat-and-leather-glove-styling version of masculinity. And millions of dudes took their cues from him.

When I see the fellas walking toward me, talking, laughing, and, yes, even coughing, sans mask on the street, I feel more than a little resentment toward them, and toward our former President for encouraging them to think masks ain’t masculine. And I can’t shake it.

No matter how hard I try, I have not been able to flip my attitude to gratitude in this situation.

Until today. Suddenly I was seized by an admittedly far-fetched but nonetheless effective remedy for my resentment. I am taking my cue from the recovery wisdom telling me that I should go to any length to stay sober.

And what I am about to say is admittedly a stretch.

I have decided to turn my resentment against the ex Prez and his anti-masking followers into a feeling of deep gratitude to former First Lady Melania.

Why on earth would I do that?:

Because unlike Jackie Kennedy or Nancy Reagan or Michelle Obama, the quiet lady in Donald’s shadow never inspired any of us ordinary gals to try to look or act like her. In refreshing contrast to her demanding husband, she didn’t ask us for anything.

I am grateful that while the guys picked up on Donald’s macho swag, I felt no pressure to imitate Melania’s flawlessly beautiful femininity and airbrushed Barbie Doll sexiness.

I don’t want to own a pair of soft black leather thigh-high boots, or master the art of cheekbone contouring with blush, or maintain a bathing suit figure in middle age, or have perfectly blown dry hair or be on a five-outfit-a-day fashion schedule. Somehow the elegant and surprisingly diffident Melania managed to get through four years as First Lady without stepping away from her husband’s side long enough to set a single fashion or lifestyle trend or demand by her very presence that any of us ordinary gals attempt to be an international supermodel of mystery.

To the contrary, it seems to me that during the Trump years, female sartorial standards plummeted into a dismal rut of yoga pants and hoodies, top-to-toe stretchy athleisure fabrics that were unflattering on the best bodies, hideous biking shorts, drab maxi dresses, a million varieties of ugly running shoes and bootywear so scanty it scarcely contained or covered up cabooses that could have used a little support when wearing clingy dresses or leggings. The pressure to be as fashionable as the First Lady was definitely off.

And I am grateful, so grateful, to Melania for this on these dreary February days when I shlep out of the house with my dog in tow, wearing my sorry-but-safe covid couture: baggy loungewear pants, last year’s worn out coat, and a double layer of powder blue surgical masks. I say, thank you, Melania, for your surprising low profile and your modesty. I am sorry you were eclipsed by your domineering spouse. But I am oh so grateful you let me off the hook.

Yes and No

It is said that if we stick with our program of recovery:

Fear of people will disappear.

I am hoping and praying that this is true. Indeed I am counting on it.

Fear is a powerful opponent of love, of all relationships–and though I hate to admit it I am terrified of intimacy.

You too? It’s a pretty scary thing to confess on this day when we celebrate pheromones and friendship.

You probably wouldn’t guess it if you met me. I am a warm and cheerful person, a decent friend. I do my best each day for the people I love and the people I meet in passing. I endeavor to follow the sober advice to show kindness and patience to everyone, restrain angry impulses and not ask too much of my loved ones.

But when it comes to trying to find the next, perhaps the last, Grand Amour of my life, or even a sweet and humble connection that feels right, I am paralyzed with terror.

Riddled with fear of intimate love. Trembling like a Chihuahua in a skimpy overcoat. That is me. Well, not exactly. Like I said, it’s not apparent on the surface.

But I know it is there, goading me to push away every chance I might have for a deep and enduring partnership.

If you asked me what I was afraid of, what caused me to put up a wall on every date or swat away every possible online suitor, I would probably tell you that I fear the sensation of not being attracted to someone, I dread having to reject a person who doesn’t seem like a very good prospect. I would confidently assert that I preempt every possibility because I cannot bear the thought of having to tell someone that I don’t desire him.

And that would be bull roar.

If I look at myself with the brutal honesty I have been trying to cultivate in the offices of psychiatrists for more than 40 years, and in the rooms of recovery for a decade, I would say that what I am actually afraid of is loving someone so much that it really hurts when he hurts me. While I am loath to confess my cowardice and vulnerability, while I would swear to you that this fellow was too young and that one was too silly and this one was too pushy, and that is why I gave any and every possible lover over the past decade a healthy shove, I know that I would be fooling you and myself. If I honestly examine the experiences that have shaped my romantic behavior over a lifetime, I have to admit that my intimate history is not riddled with loveless liaisons but instead rife with instances of being hurt, abandoned or rejected by those whom I adored most deeply and tenderly.

And that is why my romantic reflexes are of the fight or flight variety.

But it’s not an excuse.

I am hopeful that my program of recovery, and the kindly prodding of my wise psychiatrist, can help me find the courage to stop battling the possibility of partnership in life’s lovely final seasons.

I have read a psychological theory that states that a certain amount of fear of intimacy exists in all of us, alongside it’s paradoxical pal, fear of loneliness. Relationships, this theory posits, can be suffocated by too much neediness or frozen by too much distance. Surviving in love means balancing these elements and sticking it out through moments when we feel overwhelmed or alone.

In recovery we pray every day for wisdom, serenity and courage. I will need all of those, especially courage, to not run from or banish anyone who tries to enter the territory of my guarded but still hopeful heart.

How Much?

Happy heart week, friends.

For years I have been trying to figure out my recovery fellowship’s take on relationships. Maybe it is foolish for me to look for romantic guidance from a program founded in the 1930s by a couple of old-fashioned married men. But I have learned that the wisdom of 12-step recovery transcends the conventions of the era in which it was born.

Perhaps, then, it should not have surprised me the other day when the moderator of my telephone recovery meeting read the following lines from 12-step literature:

Here we experience the kind of giving that asks no rewards…the kind of love that has no price tag on it.

And there it was–the sober wisdom I have been seeking in my efforts to improve on past romantic failures and overcome my character defects related to giving and receiving affection.

I should mention that the words I reference appear in a part of the sober literature that focuses on working selflessly to help other alcoholics. This is not a passage on how to build an intimate connection. In fact, there is no passage that I can think of in the writings of my fellowship that addresses directly the subject of romantic love and partnership.

So forgive me for taking license here when I say that love without a price tag is exactly what I failed at and precisely what I need to attempt going forward if I want to find a partner for my life’s precious final seasons.

I am grateful beyond measure to have heard these wise words. And now, in anticipation of a holiday on which I feel compelled to torture myself about lost love, a day on which pity parties are chocolate flavored and smell of roses and thoughts can turn resentfully to cards and candy not received, I am meditating on the wisdom of affection that asks for nothing in return.

One of the men whom I loved dearly but with whom I failed to form a lasting union, sometimes shared stories of women in his past who were “too expensive.” He was speaking literally about ladies who had contempt for his modest salary and were looking for someone who could bring cash and prizes into a relationship. I remember thinking to myself, “I could never be a gold digger.” Yet in the end I discovered that while I dreamed of giving and receiving unconditional affection, and tried to live up to that ideal, my love for this man had its own hefty price tag. My emotional and behavioral demands of my partner were as costly and ruinous as those of any fortune hunter.

Thinking back now on this broken love affair, and others, I recognize that my most treasured romantic memories are of giving and receiving love in a fashion unfettered by expectations or demands. When I gave or received love in an atmosphere of selflessness it was magical–and the more mutually generous the partnership, the more successful and enduring.

In recovery, we strive for:

Progress, not perfection.

I certainly do not think my past relationships failed because they were imperfect. But I do think in every instance of broken love I was too demanding. It is natural to ask things of people whom we love and whom we want to love us. The thing I am learning in recovery is to practice moderation, especially in my dealings with others. I am discovering the importance of:

Restraint of tongue and pen.

and learning to show:

Kindness, patience and tolerance.

And above all, I am trying to follow the instruction to:

Not ask too much of our loved ones.

I wish I had known and followed all these wise sayings back when I was wrecking my intimate liaisons. But knowing them now gives me hope for next February 14, and the one after.

Like the best loving relationships, the lessons of recovery are priceless.

If Only

There are times when certain recovery sayings seem almost too affirming, too sweet, to be true. Like this catchy couplet:

It works if you work it. So work it, you’re worth it.

At the moment, I am finding happy sayings especially hard to take (or believe) because I am feeling more than a little discouraged. Yes, the pandemic is finally getting to me (me and millions of others). I am trying to be patient and brave and stoic and strong BUT sometimes I want to howl along with John Lennon:

Yes I’m lonely. Wanna die.

It’s not easy to live alone during this scourge, to go for weeks at a time without seeing a friendly face or feeling a human touch or experiencing the sensation of being loved.

The rules of surviving the horrid Covid plague begin with ditching all of my loved ones. Not forever but for a present moment that seems interminable. According to leading scientists, as long as Covid rages, other people are all potential killers. I have to stay away from close contact with humanoids if I wish to avoid a hellish death, regardless of my feelings for them, my desire to be a loving and reliable friend, or my profound need for life-sustaining affection and companionship. And so because I have no husband, roommate or relative sharing my space, I am condemned to build a prison around myself and live with a degree of loneliness that on my worst days drives me to fantasies of relapse and merciless self-flogging about failing at relationships.

It’s every human for him, her or itself. And if you were fortunate enough to enter this pandemic tunnel with a companion, or find you can be satisfied with zoom mates, I envy you.

And envy even more those legions of lucky vaccinated people, showing off their pincushion arms on Facebook, or eagerly pulling up their sleeves and getting punctured in front of the TV cameras. A vaccine would at least allow me to feel enough confidence to attempt a masked and distanced rendezvous with someone from my contact list who has not yet taken personal offense at my reticence and written me off.

Alas, I am six months shy of a birthday that would qualify me for a shot at a shot. So I’m gonna have to wait my turn. And ignore all the injection flexing that triggers my frustration and resentment.

So there it is. I’ve got all the fixings for a personal pity party as lavish and self-destructive as the grandest Super (spreader) Bowl gathering planned to celebrate the Big Game this weekend.

How the heck do I get back to the happy world of it works if you work it?

Last night, on a recovery phone meeting that has become a spiritual lifeline for me, a woman shared this (and I paraphrase to protect her anonymity):

Most of the time I find that my sobriety program keeps me pretty serene. And if I am disturbed I know that I will always find an answer in the recovery literature.

I knew she was right, and was grateful that my Higher Power had sent me a map to lead me out of my doldrums and away from a drink. I thought about all the wise words that have been imparted to me in almost a decade of recovery. And I came up with three sayings to help me navigate these personally and globally devastating days.

This too shall pass (which got me through a weepy Christmas and a sullen Turkey Day).

Accept the things I cannot change (a no-brainer and a way of life if I want to stay sober through bad times and worse).

Don’t quit before the miracle (a vaccine and a hug are worth waiting for…and how).

OK, so I worked it. All I have to do now is have faith that it will work. Hey Higher Power, I could use a little help with that. I think I know just the right slogan:

Let go and let God.

Dawning

Some things I hear at recovery meetings are difficult to grasp–at least at first. For instance:

I am living a life beyond my wildest dreams.

Early in sobriety, when I heard people say this at meetings, and they said it quite often, I wondered what they were talking about.

How could a sober life possibly be wilder than the deranged aspirations, and crazier antics, of an alcoholic? How were these fine folks defining the word “wild”? It was a real head-scratcher.

Now, almost ten years into my sober journey, I have had an epiphany about this matter.

It popped into my head the other day, when I recognized that I had been focusing on the wrong part of the slogan. I had been obsessing about “wildest.” Of course I had been doing that. I am an alcoholic. I love all things dramatic and exciting.

The key to understanding this sober saying, however, is the word “beyond.”

That was my AHA moment. I realized that what I have learned in recovery is that there is a life miles above and infinitely preferable to the unhinged actions and delirious daydreams of addiction. It is a life that follows the drunk life in time but surpasses it in every other sense.

A life of serenity, restraint, humility, peace. A life without remorse and shame. A life of quiet bliss.

Now don’t get me wrong. I did not arrive at my new definition of an idyllic existence on my first day in recovery. As previously noted, initially I was utterly flummoxed by the claims of my fellows in sobriety that they had found such a marvelous life without daily infusions of a dizzying elixir that made everything spin dangerously out of control.

How could they relax without chemical enhancement?

How could they find friends or romantic partners without the universally acclaimed “social lubricant”?

How could life without chemical escape or chemical excitement be fun or joyous?

The way I arrived at my new definition of dreaminess was, oddly enough, by following the many words of sober wisdom I have shared with you in this space.

I kept coming back to the meetings and literature of recovery. I tried to live my life one day at a time. I got through the difficult days by remembering that this too will pass and taking seriously the sober advice to never get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. I did my best to cultivate a relationship with a spiritual entity known as my Higher Power and practice the admonition to let Go and let God. I strove to look past my own willfulness, selfishness and egotism by searching for someone I can help, doing the next right thing, and when I am wrong, promptly admitting it. And above all I remembered to keep reciting the Serenity Prayer: asking my Higher Power to grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.

And never forgot the most magical of sober sayings:

Don’t quit before the miracle.

I didn’t quit. And I have found a life beyond my wildest dreams. Those dreams I clung to and treasured for so many years of inebriation and insanity.

And am getting further away from the old me and the old dreams one moment, one hour at a time.

What To Do?

Back to that whiny child. One of my favorite expressions when I was coming up, and I am sure I am not alone in this, was:

NO FAIR.

It took me decades, and heaps of emotional pain, to realize that fairness is not really a major part of the human journey. You certainly can’t count on it.

Then I became sober and discovered that equity is not really a part of recovery. Instead I was encouraged to accept that a lot of life experiences do not contain a component of fairness and I needed to face that fact or rack up a bunch of resentments that would drive me back to drinking.

I am not talking about making a decision to dedicate one’s life to the righting of society’s wrongs, or to the professional pursuit of a career in law, philanthropy or activism.

I am confining my discussion to those little everyday injustices that are better accepted (unless one decides to become an official crusader against them) than stored up as resentments.

The basic sober approach to fairness is summed up in our beloved serenity prayer, which teaches us to pray for the wisdom to know the difference between things we can change and things we must accept and then practice acceptance with serenity and change with courage.

Here’s another bit of recovery wisdom that encourages us to know when to practice acceptance in the face of life’s unfairness. I refer to it quite often in this space:

We must live life on life’s terms.

Yesterday, life’s terms were challenging. As afternoon faded into evening, I noticed a curious cluster of blue and red lights dancing on my wall. Peeking through the blinds, I saw that three police cars had parked on my block. Being a naturally curious person, and a fervent believer in knowing what is going on in my neighborhood, I grabbed my coat, exited my house, and approached one of the police:

“Excuse me, officer, can you please tell me what is happening?”

“There was an incident but it’s over now.”

And before I could follow up, he had hopped into his car and slammed the door.

Frustrated but still curious, I returned to my house and continued to watch the scene from behind the blinds. A few minutes later, an ambulance and a couple of fire trucks showed up. Hoping that a fire fighter might be friendlier than a police officer, I hastened into the street once more, walked over to the big red truck and said:

“Excuse me, sir, can you please tell me what is happening?”

“You will have to ask the police about that. I am just here to deal with the medical emergency.”

Once again, I retreated, feeling discouraged and also disturbed. Not only had a mysterious and threatening incident occurred on my block, but it had also resulted in a medical emergency. And I was still no closer to knowing what had gone down

Then, just as I was about to turn and go back home, I spied a police officer armed with a semi-automatic rifle walk over to one of the parked police vehicles, open the trunk, and place the big gun inside.

And I called out to him:

“Excuse me officer, I live on this block and I am concerned about what is going on.”

He shut the hatch, turned, and said in a weary voice:

“There was an incident but it’s over now.”

“What happened?”

Sighing, he replied in a tone one might use with a frightened child:

“We caught the bad guy, it’s over. Everything’s OK now.”

“What sort of bad guy. What did he do?”

But the officer had ducked into his vehicle.

An incident. A medical emergency. A bad guy.

And now the first responders were leaving, and I was feeling mighty insecure. And more than miffed that none of the brave guys who had rounded up the bad guy and taken the injured party or parties to the hospital was willing to let me in on the threat. How could I be a responsible grownup looking out for my house and those of my neighbors if the police and fire folk shooed me away with hollow assurances as if I were a small scared child.

I had to face the fact that the first responders had been curt and dismissive. They did not appreciate my interest in neighborhood security nor did they want to enlist me as an ally or keep me in the loop.

Life’s terms, baby.

And yes, baby girl:

NO FAIR

But the great thing about recovery sayings is there is always another one to turn to when you need to. And as I sat brooding about my failed attempt at bonding with my first responders, I took comfort in the following sober slogan:

We must live in the solution.

And whaddaya know…

A few minutes later, I turned on the television to distract myself, and saw an advertisement for a simple solar powered motion detector security light that I could purchase and affix to the back of the house, which faces the alley where the mysterious crime had taken place.

I think I will get one or two of those lights, install them, and then recite the serenity prayer and remind myself that I have fulfilled my sober duty to change the things I can and accept the rest.

Fair enough.

Screen Tested

Were you a whiny child? I was. Sometimes I was too scared to voice my protests, but inside my head I was feisty as heck:

“Do I have to?” “I don’t wanna!” “You can’t make me!” “I’m not gonna!”

You can imagine my dismay when I grew up, became sober, and encountered the advice to:

Live life on life’s terms.

And inside my head I heard that old familiar rhyme:

“Do I have to?” “I don’t wanna!” “You can’t make me!” “I’m not gonna!”

Life on life’s terms could not be crazier than it is in these terrible times.

And one of life’s more irritating terms, at least to me, is communicating by way of Zoom.

For months I avoided facing the inescapable fact that the new way to stay sober, and sustain precious recovery connections, involved meeting via video. I am camera shy, technologically resistant and a perfectionist. If I was going to video conference, I wanted to look as cool as John Legend at his grand piano, or as lovely as one of those chic lady pundits with towering bookshelves and elegant bone structure. It couldn’t just be plain ole me on my couch, trying to hold my computer aloft for a flattering camera angle.

So for a while I attended meetings via telephone. I became quite fond of one particular gathering where people from around the country shared their experience strength and hope.

Unfortunately, however, I have an addict’s tendency to become restless, irritable and discontent. Before long I waxed dissatisfied with my telephone fellowship. A friend of mine who was attending Zoom meetings raved about the closeness she felt with her video homies and I reflected enviously that my phone group had not led to such bonding. I tried joining my gal pal’s favorite group via telephone, but none of her friends wanted to reach out to a disembodied voice. I listened to them banter affectionately and became increasingly miserable. It seemed that if I wanted to escape my Age of Covid isolation, I was going to have to face my fears and Zoom.

So I clicked on the link and set up my computer camera. Recovery zooming seemed like fun at first. I was proud of myself. I enjoyed seeing my sober peeps onscreen. Some were lying down. Some were upside down (a technical glitch, I assumed). It was nice to attach faces to words. But then I noticed that I could also see myself–and my decidedly un-sober vanity kicked in. My face looked to me like a featureless blob looming in the frame. My hair was flat and scraggly. And my expression gave new meaning to the term Resting Witch Face. Even worse was the way I came across when I tried to improve the way I looked by flipping my hair or attempting a fake smile or, finally and disastrously, holding my computer so far away from me that I yanked out the charger and disconnected myself.

Part of living life on life’s terms is practicing acceptance in all things. And as hard as it was to accept that I am a vain old thing, I had to do it. Vanity will be the very next character defect I work on. I will pray like heck to ask my Higher Power to remove it. And until I can make peace with that blobby creature on the couch, or hire a stylist who can transform me into a crisp and chiseled professor, I am going to return to my audio meetings.

And, yes, I can hear that little voice from my childhood:

“Do I have to?” “You can’t make me!” “I don’t wanna!”

But I’m gonna.