Wings, Tears, and Water

Hi All,

Today is Wednesday and I am trying to prepare to go away for a few days. I guess it is a reflection of really who I am that I have to write as part of preparing to travel. Anyway, a lot to say and I apologize in advance if it does not come out as my most eloquent post. I've been so busy handling my father's house on the weekends that I've not really been able to reflect or even think. Some interesting things have happened lately though.

1) I got the furniture from his house and now it is in my house and contrary to what I predicted---this seems to be somehow healing. It is strange in the hows or whys? I realize that grief twists and turns and is unpredictable. Something I think will be fine is really hard. Things I think might be sad are not as bad as I thought. I am learning not to predict how I will feel and just try to be present. Sometimes being present is really hard. Not hard I cant do it but hard I don't want to. I want to hide from sadness or anger or confusion. I want to hide often.

2)Talking about it, to the right people, does help. Yesterday I was dealing with some work crisis stuff that was related to suicide and I ended up talking about my Dad to my colleague at the end of the day. I did this because I know that I get really triggered on this topic and I'm scared that if I hold it in then I'll end up messing myself up somehow. Anyway, I talked about it and really was struck by how I still carry around this sense of regret. Not guilt, but regret. There is a difference. I don't feel responsible but I do see how at some point I just gave up on "fixing" my Dad. I don't feel bad really about this as much as I see this as something that was inevitable for me. I reached a point where I felt I had nothing left to give. Where I felt empty and hurt and finished. It struck me yesterday that my Dad and I reached this point at the same exact time. I don't know what to say about that exactly other than it is a sad thing to realize.  My colleague was saying to me "it was not your job to fix him" and she is right and I know this. My head knows this. My heart breaks on this still. I feel in my heart that it
 was not about fixing--I knew that then and I know it now--it was about something else. Some nebulous thing that had been done and could not be undone. History. Destiny. Illness. The hardest part continues to be acknowledging my own powerlessness to protect the people I love from a harm I see coming from years away. It is not my job to see it or to change it. And so a tiny part of me wishes I hadn't seen it at all. Like a train wreck you see coming and have to stand and watch. The powerlessness is the thing to be reckoned with. The powerlessness brings me to my knees over and over. Fills me with fear. And, I guess, ultimately leads me back to a higher power for guidance, strength, and refuge.

3)The water. Since my Dad's death I seem to have a mixed relationship with water. My Dad jumped off of a bridge into water and he drowned. I wish I could say that I don't think about this but I do. I think about drowning--(not about me drowning but about him) . I try not to and then I give up and just do. I like to run near the water but I still cry when I see it. I still have visceral reactions to bridges of all kinds and am trying to accept that too. I want to fight it so much and just be ok and pretend. Pretending just seems so much easier sometimes and then I realize pretending just makes the pain last longer and makes me feel disconnected and shitty. There is no hiding from this pain. It demands attention and respect. I see that. I get that. I need to feel this and move thru it. I guess I am just in it. I am in the thick of it. 6 months out with no shock or numbing left to hold onto and I am just floating along in a sea of sometimes better and sometimes worse and hoping at some point I'll bump into something that makes sense--I guess sometimes I do.

4)Love. And I am learning in a fundamental new way about love. I am learning that people show up for me in the only ways that they know how. It is not my job to figure this out or break it down. It is my job to accept the love that I receive in the multitude of ways that it is offered to me. My Dad, when he was healthy, offered me love in ways that I often felt critical of. It was not love in the form that I wanted.  I had years of wanting my love to show up in a Brooks Brothers suit and take me to a Country Club where our name was recognized. I had years of wanting my love to show up in pain splattered jeans and take me to a studio where our name was recognized and respected. Wealth. Status. Art. I had years of wanting my Dad to be a different person than he was. I had versions in my head of other people's Dads and my ideal was a composite of this I guess. Recently I am starting to get it though--that the people in our lives--our family, real people, are not like characters in a book or movie. We know them in the ways that make us uncomfortable and have sharp edges and gaping holes. My job right now seems to be love the people in my life who are there now for who they really are and for how they show up for me. I love my husband for driving that crazy UHaul thru 8hours of roundtrip NJ traffic and packing and unpacking the things that have finally brought me peace. I love him for not being hungover or mean or unhealthy and for taking care of himself in a way that sometimes seems foreign to me. I love him for not letting me fall down into myself in the thousand ways that I imagine I could without him. I love my Mom for the million times she picks up the phone and listens to me be sad or ramble or be mad. I love her the most for always picking up the phone. It is hard to imagine something more fundamentally perfect then knowing your Mom will always pick up the phone. And I love my children easily for the ways that they are different--for how she didn't do her part in the play because of the crowd or because of her cat or because she just didn't want to. I love her fear and I love her courage. I love him for playing Tee Ball and trying so hard out on that field. I love how he cant throw yet but tries so hard anyway. I love his trains and how he plays with them in his own little imaginary world. I love these people right now for just who they are. Not for what I imagine or how they could be but for who they are right now.
I am learning that one thing. How to love these people.
xx
K

Art Lessons

Hi All,

Tonite is Wednesday. What a strange few days it has been. I realized tonite something that, every so often, I realize. Living in negative space is uncomfortable and unpleasant and does not have to be done. Whenever I begin thinking about this topic--negative thinking--I very frequently am reminded of the art lessons that my parents got for me when I was maybe 9. The women who was teaching me was a very amazing teacher and artist. She had me do all sorts of exercises and one of the thing things that she taught me how to do was draw negative space. It is a very interesting exercise which basically forces you to look at whatever you are drawing in a totally different way. It is hard and requires concentration, patience, and practice. None of these things I had in large supply at 9 or 10 or 11 or whenever it was that I got my lessons.

Needless to say that the lessons did not stick but the practice, the thinking, the concepts did stick. In fact, I often find myself coming back to some of her teachings and nodding to myself. Yes, she was smart. My negative space drawing actually came out pretty good. It surprised me at the time that my negative space drawing ended up looking remarkably similar to the actual object. The only person who really knew my trick was me. I realized then that what I look at, quite literally is what I see.

A few weeks later I was copying Picasso upside down. Again I was forced to abandon my own ideas of what was in front of me and instead just draw what I saw. That time my picture was downright good. I was stunned to see when I was done that I had copied a Picasso pretty well--never knowing while I was drawing what I was looking at. I had drawn what was there, the lines, and that's all.

So how does any of this go with recovery, my day, or anything else? I realized today that I was drawing in negative space.  I mean I felt it. I felt how my attention, my thinking, my lines were drawing what was missing. No one else might know this but me, but I know. I know that what might be an interesting drawing exercise is a downright destructive thinking one. When I look at what's not there then that is what I see and when I allow what's not there to inform what is there then I am really, well, done for.

My father's death in many ways could be blamed for my negativity, my anxiety , my "stress" but I know that is also a lie.  My proclivity towards the negative, the obsessive, the destructive side of things is something I talk about openly. I spent years drinking, smoking, and thinking obsessively about what I didn't have or might lose. I didn't consciously do this--I just sort of ended up there. A habit. A pattern. A lifestyle. An addiction. This time my pain knocked me down down down inside of myself. I have written about finding out about his death and wanting to go outside and just scream at the night but when I look back now I feel as if I was falling. Falling. Falling.

When I came to I was at the bottom of the inside of myself. I was in my deepest fears. In my oldest insecurities. In a primal place of darkness that I thought I had left behind years ago. It has taken time, patience, and strength to recognize just where I am and just where I have been. Where I am is trudging back up those stairs. Plodding. Slowly moving one step at a time back from the bottom. I try not to look back because I am not sure I can stomach the view. I try not to look forward because I don't want to lose my balance. I am just staying focused on the steps. One at a time. Forward. Up. Forward. Up. Forward. Up.

The first day I woke up after my father's death I remember I thought to myself how will I do this day? How am I supposed to do it? My brain so trained told me one step at a time. I remember thinking about that as I walked down the stairs and into the shower. One step at a time. I thought that thought so frequently that day and into the next and the next. The next right thing. One day at a time. Let go and Let God. The AA slogans that once made no sense to me have returned to me over and over when I need them. So when my friend asked me the other night if I thought about drinking after my Dad died, I wasn't lying at all when I said, No, I really didn't. The truth is, I thought about living. xxK
 

Spiritually Fit

Hi All,

Well, I got thru my anniversary meeting without totally falling apart. I did have an amazing thing happen to me though and I need to share. I was sitting waiting for the meeting about to begin and I turned around and right sitting in a row behind me were these four men in the program, all sitting in a row, who had each privately told me about a suicide in their families that altered them. A father, a brother, a wife, and a failed suicide for himself. Each of these men had come to me and shared their pain and stories with me. Had reassured me at a time when I didn't know which way was up that I someday would. One of them said to me very sternly--"Stay away from the guilt kid, there is nothing there for you." Months later I understood just how wise these words were. A few of them gave me phone numbers and offered to speak with me whenever I wanted, if I wanted, about how I was feeling. Each of them made me feel that I was not alone and that I could stay sober even if my Dad had taken his life, even if it was traumatic, even if it hurt, even if it hurt a lot.

Seeing these men sitting there, behind me, I felt suddenly and for the first time in a very long long time that I was right where I was supposed to be. I felt that I had ended up in this place, with these people, for a reason and that I was safe and loved. It was such a strong and powerful feeling that I almost began to cry. I felt that each of them had been sent to me for a specific reason and that they were and are a fundamental part of my healing. I felt that our pain, shared, was manageable.

And this feeling of togetherness. This sense that our pain brought us together, united us, and healed us...this made me feel lighter, made me feel hopeful, made me understand something. That we need to share our pain with each other not just because it is unhealthy to hold it in but because when we do that it connects us in a deep and powerful way. These men are my people. They are my family in the world of understanding a pain that is sometimes complicated, isolating, confusing. Their presence soothes me and holds me together. No, life is not easy and No, this year was not easy and it scared me and it hurt me and it did not go how I wanted and I didn't say or do what I wished I had and half of the time I am just hanging on and looking over at them and believing that if they can do it, then so can I. And maybe that just this...this hanging on and looking to others to show us how to do it. Maybe this is what it is all about. xxK

 

April 25

Hi,

Tomorrow is my sober bday party. 9 years. I have such mixed feelings about this 9th year and have so many different and big emotions that I am a little, or maybe a lot, scared. I have this bad habit of narrating my own life events before they happen and then deciding exactly how I want it to be. I want to look pretty and grateful and humble and together. I want other sober people to think that they too, if they keep staying sober, will also be able to get my particular brand of pretty, grateful, humble, and, well, great. Deep down I know though that this year has sucked beyond compare. Has hurt too much. Has made me cry too much. Has made me behave badly too much. Yell, at my husband, yell at my kids, yell at my Mom...ok maybe not yell but a video would surely reveal moments of pain, strain, stress, not me at my best self or even close. Petty, tired, confused, bored, disappointed, agitated, self absorbed, lonely.

This was my 9th year sober.

It was not the years past. Grateful. Sober. It was not the first year where I glowed. Or the second where I glowed more. Or the third, engaged. Or the fourth, a baby! Or the fifth, a house and almost another baby. Or the the sixth, so tired. Or the seventh, a new state to live in, Or the eight, feeling more at home in said new state. No, the ninth was heart break. The ninth was loss.

I earned it. I am proud of myself but I am also scared. Scared of the reality and depth of my feelings. Scared of scaring other people. Scared I will disappoint myself and others with my lack of grace, or just brokenness. I still see it though, that maybe this 9th year was the year that defined my sobriety. The year I hung on. The year I was carried. The year that almost, but not quite, took me down and then didn't. Happy Sober Bday to myself. I admit it, I made me proud--even if my nose was running the entire time. xxK

April 10

Hi All,

A few things. I just realized that it was April 10 (my husbands bday) that was the day I had my last drink. My first sober day was April 11 and so this April 11 it will make 9, years since I last I had a glass or two or three or four or...of wine. Anyway, today it is almost April 10 and that makes me feel strange. Every year it makes me feel a little strange in early April how the air feels, how the light is, how things are. I guess because I remember still fairly vividly how I was back then.

I wish I could sum it all up perfectly and say something motivational about sobriety, about life, health, hope. I feel strongly that many people have helped me save and then change my own life. Really, I just did what other people told me to do for a really long time and even when I was not sure they were right. I stopped doing things my way and started being open to doing things different. It took so long though and for so many hours and days I felt sad and broken and alone. I had so many moments of wanting to go get a drink or light a cigarette or smoke a joint. So many little infinite minutes of not doing what I had done so many times before. I think in those not doing moments, in that resistance to my own habit, I found something...or found someone, myself. My brain it seems had gotten stuck doing and had stopped being able to give me good advice. Learning that I could resist an impulse, a desire, a thought was uncomfortable and painful and humbling. It took time. Then more time.

Only recently have I come to really understand what the last 9 years has been about. Growing up. Taking responsibility for myself and then taking responsibility for my thoughts and actions. Holding myself more accountable and then being gentle with myself too. Learning that I can be happy and sad, strong and fragile, loud, soft and everything in between and that I can be sober thru all of it. This last few months has taught me so much about my own pain, about how I can either make it work for me or allow it to destroy me. I will leave you tonite with this sort of funny cooking metaphor that I came up with. Maybe life is like making gravy. Right before that chicken burns to a crisp there is this moment, deep, dark colored, and so close to being over the line. If you add the liquid then and it is hot and you scrape and work quickly what you end up with is amazing gravy. It is learning how to use the almost burned that it takes time and skill to realize. It is not being afraid of burning anything. It is patience, skill, and faith rolled together.

So this pain is like my dark bits for my gravy. I let it stick, hang around, develop--I dont freak out or move too quick. I know that at the right time I am going to add the broth, which in this case is love, and I am going to use this pain, this dark stuff, to make my love darker, richer, more complex.

I look back to nine years ago tonite...I was in my last blackout. I did not know that then. I thought that I was just having my life. Making my bad choices. Having fun. I had no idea that my life was about to change in a profound and startling way the very next morning. The hows and whys of that night and the following day are complicated but simple. I finally got it. I finally let myself feel the fear, pain, shame, and remorse without pretending it away. And that pain that I had been denying for so long, roared up, and moved me right out of my own way. xxK

Happy Birthday Dad

Dear Dad,

Happy 75th Birthday. I miss you. I think about you a lot and more often lately I am able to think about you not your death--which is good. It hit me last night that you are gone and it was hard. I want to feel that you are still with me which I do sometimes more recently. I know you are. My own brain can be my worst liability. If I shut my thinking off then I am ok and my heart is open and you are with me. I will try to stay with that today with just being with you. It is hard bc you are not here but I am strong, or can be strong. I am sorry for how hard things were at the end of your life between us. I wish I could go back and do it over but I cant. Am stuck here knowing that I made mistakes, have regrets, and need to accept that. I know deep down that you forgive me or are working on it. I forgive you too and I am glad you are at peace finally.

I love you.
xxx
Karen Anne

Hi All,

Today is Wednesday, April 3rd.  I've been writing about my Dad's death so much lately that sometimes I forget how this all started. So, that said, I am going on a walk down memory lane tonite. My walk one week from today exactly nine years ago. That would take us to April 10, 2004. In 2004  was 30 years old. I am not going to blog about my romantic life at that point except to say that I was with a man who I did not deserve, and really did not fully appreciate until a few years ago. (I will also add that the only reason I am not going to write about that part of this story is that it is not fully mine and I dont think it is fair to share other people's lives in the same crazy way that I share my own without getting permission and since we are no longer in touch this would be impossible.) Anyway, in 2004 I was working very hard not to be a daily  drinker. I was doing this thing I guess you could call my attempt at controlled drinking. If you dont have an alcohol problem this may not make any sense but if you do then you can appreciate the special hell that this project creates.

So there I was dating this nice man who was willing and able to give me the life that I said I wanted and yet it seemed something was missing. I was living alone with my dog and down the street from the very same house that I had moved to in my previous relationship. When I had moved into that house, I thought I would live there, with that man, for a long time. Imagined I'd have children there or around there. Thought things would turn out different. When I found myself alone, in an apt, up the street from where I had imagined my future I became scared, confused, and desperate.

I had moved on so quickly and with such velocity that I dont think I even really knew then how I felt and what I wanted. I was drinking much less in an effort to prove something to myself about my maturity or my life or myself but when I did drink, well, it was not pretty, not controlled, and I was not ok. April 9 I found myself in NYC visiting my old roomate and looking to begin drinking at 3pm. I began at a bar in the East Village that was in a basement and very dark. At 9pm I vaguely recall being in the bathroom with a man I didnt know. By 10p I remember looking in the mirror and feeling totally disconnected to the person who was looking back--after that it is all sort of black and brown spots. What it was mostly, was terrifying and, in retrospect, life changing.

That black out and my realization after it that my drinking was not working, had not been working for a long time, and basically had never really worked was life changing for me. It all happened in April. So April is a strange month for me. I remember the weather and how sad and scared and lonely I was in the beginning of the month. Remember just how desperate I was at one point to get my old drinking partner back and how confused I was, even at 30, about what love was--what it felt like to be loved and to love. I had pain, need, desperation wrapped around and in between it all. It's painful and sad to remember those times not just because of my regrets about the people that I hurt but also because of how much I hurt myself and how vividly I still remember that pain.

But that pain did do something for me. It moved me from a place of victimhood, desperation, and addiction towards a new and very different place. It did not happen overnite but it did happen pretty quickly. Once I stopped fighting the pain and just felt it...it moved me. And once the pain got inside me and I allowed myself to feel it and not anestheisize it then I was changed. The pain forced me to be honest. It forced me to get help. It forced me to show up for myself and stop hiding behind bad relationships and drama. And when the alcohol, weed, and men that loved them both more than me were all gone...what was left...was me. Stripped down and without any bells or  whistles I began anew. Began to peel away the lies that I told myself until what was left was real. Over the last 9 years I have peeled, stripped, and peeled and stripped and then built it all back up and up and up until I was solid, strong, real. In the last 4 months my new self has been shaken, pushed, prodded, and knocked down. At times I've wondered if maybe I was wrong to think I was strong at all. Have questioned my life, my choices, my sanity. Have reached out and then shut down. Have opened up and then closed again. Have pushed, pulled, and tantrumed and thru it all, despite it all, I've remained...myself. And that is something that