I talk too much.

  Especially when it comes to certain men. Certain men that I find appealing.

And really, there are not many that turn my head.

It has little to do with looks and everything to do with demeanor and character.  I mean, I’d rather you not be a hunchback or anything.  But when that special combination arrives in front of me and the interest appears mutual…..I turn into a blubbering idiot.

I give myself away.  Just like a happy pooch.

Happypup

I remember my mom always said: “You need to keep some mystery about you.”  I hated that!  It seemed dishonest but I’ve always had a tough time distinguishing between what was being truthful, what was ok to be private about (share with only a few) and what was appropriate to share and with whom.  It’s all been very confusing for me.

I can appear to be aloof because I am (somewhat) reserved.  I dislike small talk and having to make conversation.  If we talk, let’s get down to it.

I want to know what feeds your soul.

And you can be sure I will tell you what feeds mine along with the long drawn out history of why, who, what, where and how.

But because this takes a lot of energy, let’s only do this if we think we can make a go of it. You know… be friends and all that.  I’ve not only approached my (few) romantic interests this way but also my women friends as well.

Sometimes I wonder about myself.  Less often than I used to… but still.  When I look at myself, I see a mess of bloody contradictions. Definitely not gifted in the social arena.

I remember reading somewhere in the blogosphere:  “People should earn the privilege of hearing your story.”

If you are the owner of that quote, please claim it!  I would like to thank you.  I’ve actually started keeping a journal of all the amazing bits of wisdom I’ve read along with the wise men and women that “spoke” them.  I want to give the credit where it’s due.

Because you have all been my healers and helpers.  

Of course GOD is the master healer because He led me to you all, but I would not be here sober had I not found this amazing and nurturing community.

The good news is that I’m getting used to being in my own skin. With sobriety I have peace.  A growing acceptance of the things I can’t change and a strong desire to change what I can.  So what if I don’t have all the answers.  I really am a person of solitude and quite happy with my independence.

I know that my path is total devotion to the Lord.  If He sees fit to give me a partner to share that devotion, my social idiosyncrasies won’t matter…I’ll be loved just as I am.

In ending, it just struck me that a little mystery is a good thing.

A beautiful thing.

A GOD thing.

Merry Christmas and Peace on Earth to all.

 

 

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Human Remains

Incredibly powerful words and insights. Thank you Stephen.

Fractured Faith Blog

As I walked through the city centre this morning I gingerly sidestep the discarded debris from the night before. The greasy pizza boxes frozen to the pavement and broken beer bottles glistening in the half light. Empty like the drunken revellers who had gorged upon them. Signs of lives that sparkled, then spluttered, across the Belfast horizon not ten hours ago. Grime scenes of pointless brawls and even more pointless declarations of undying love. The dying embers of the best or worst night of their lives.

The street cleaners are already hard at work, their trucks shattering the silence as they trundle by, removing all incriminating evidence that the night before ever existed. No more blemishes on the landscape. A return to the status quo, order restored. Setting the stage for the same tired melodramas to be played out later that evening; penning another tawdry chapter in the sorry storybook…

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6 months and #metoo

Six months of sobriety.

Thank you very much!  Thank you! (Big bow) Thank you everyone. (Another big bow)  Now… if you’ll just excuse me.  I have somewhere I need to be.  Where?

Actually, anywhere but here.

Sitting here, trying to get myself to write is tortuous.

While I’m truly grateful and glad to be sober, I have been feeling emotionally unsettled and upended.  Heavy.  Lead weight heavy.  And my mind is making up all sorts of excuses for the feelings.  Trying to keep me distracted.  Keep me from going deeper.

Familiar feelings I’ve never been able to name.   And they’re in my way.  They get in my way of fully connecting with another human.  I’m turned inward.  It takes an immense effort to look at the face and eyes of the person I’m in conversation with and I find my eyes and mind flitting about- up, down, left and right.

 I don’t want to be “seen” by the other.

Now that I’m home there are a multitude of tasks and chores needing to get done but I can’t quite gather the direction either in mind or body to accomplish any of them.

So I walk out the door.

I keep walking.  Walking and searching.  Trying to observe without the usual judgement.  Sobriety has given me the ability to be kind with myself.

I realize I’m trying to make friends with me.  The wee one inside of me.

The hashtag me too.

I know I’m far from alone here.  It seems as if every woman has a #metoo story to tell.  Some even have a few.  More than a few.

I’ve done much inner work and healing around these issues but still…. those ghostlines remain.  They are calling to me for attention.  Not to drag me back but to serve in pushing me forward.  To call them out; not drink them away.

Where I thought I had made peace, I’ll make a stronger peace.  Where I thought I had forgiven, I’ll forgive again.

And He will turn this heart of stone to one of flesh.

Sustaining my sobriety depends on it.

 

the look of it.

I am sharing this amazing post because BNW captures to perfection the hellish, brutal and vicious cycle of the active alcoholic.  And I’m also sharing for a selfish reason- so I might have quick access should the insanity begin to whisper to me once again.

 

brittanybare

I originally wrote the following in Spring 2016. It’s been sitting as a draft ever since, though I’ve returned to it from time to time…like someone studying the pages of an old photo album. As I settle into my second year of sobriety, it’s become more and more difficult to remember what it looked like – the inside of the struggle and how it all felt. This piece serves as a witness to that history.


[2016]

What am I so afraid of? What is it that I fear? What is so grotesquely difficult about being alone with my thoughts sans booze? I’ve read enough to know my drinking has something to do with fear (what fucking fear?! what is it, already!?!) But right now, my biggest fear is that I’ve crossed some invisible line and no longer maintain control over the urge to stop at the store on my way…

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5 months solid

Tomorrow I will hit the 5 month mark.

It’s been relatively easy as my grand finale is still fresh in memory.  I drive by the cheese shop on my way home and see the lights on in the back room knowing the gang are all kickin’ back at closing time.  With cocktails of course.  And then there’s the liquor shop right next door to them.  No chance of running out.

The mental gymnastics I go through in that 2 second drive by are remarkable.

It looks cozy and inviting.  The camaraderie.  The bliss of checking out.

But it’s all fake.

One big illusion.  Take away the alcohol and it’s gone. All that’s left is the aftermath. The self-destruction parading itself as a good time.  What the…?  It seemed so real.

Maybe next time will be different.

Those 6 words have kept me enslaved to alcohol for 50 years.  Yes, I’ve had periods of sobriety but I’ve fallen over and over and over…..all because of that innocent sounding statement.

And it is only by the Grace of the good Lord that I am still here.

Most nights as I pass the shop, I see my thoughts for what they are and smile.  The yetzer hara  attempting to have its way with me.

Sorry, you best move on.  Ain’t going to happen.

But driving home from work Saturday night I got hit bad as I passed the shop.

I prayed.  Real hard.

And then the image came.  The 4 day binge.

  Repulsion replaced the craving.

Thanks be to God.

Pride and Control

There is a little Napoleon that lives inside of me.

Napoleanna.

 The incident in second grade is as vivid for me as if it happened yesterday.  By the teacher’s reaction, I knew that my behavior was inappropriate but I didn’t know why.  She never explained, at least to me, and I was left feeling confused and unsettled.  I don’t think she ever contacted my mother; the “problem” was never mentioned.  Although on second thought, parenting was low on the list of priorities.  We were feral children.

And so it remained for me to figure out.

It’s taken a very long time.

On the day to which I’m referring, I was assigned to the “safety patrol”.  The duty included keeping everyone quiet and orderly as we waited for the bus to take us home.  Once the bus arrived, everyone was to walk single file to get aboard.  And to do it quietly.  No talking or, God forbid, laughing or joking.  Complete silence.  We’re talking second grade here.  Probably about 25 to 30 little bundles of light and energy.

Well, I just began pulling kids out of line right and left and ordering (shouting?) others to “Be quiet!”.  “Shut up!” was often a favorite saying in my family of dysfunction so it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s what came out.  It was only a matter of moments before I was stripped of power and left awkwardly dazed on the sidelines.

Now anyone who knows me, knows I take my responsibilities most seriously.  Some might say overly so. It was as inherent to my nature then as it now.  They also know I’m a very black and white thinking type of gal.  A good portion of my “work” has been to allow  those shades of gray and other colors entrance into my thought processes.

Rigid is not good.

Not in body and not in mind.

Everything in nature needs to bend.  Needs to be yielding and flexible to survive.

This theme of pride, control and rigidity has run in and out of my life creating havoc whenever I was riding its wave.  The good news is that I really think I’m working it out.

 The stronghold.  The blind spot.  What I haven’t been able to see about myself.

There are things we know and there are things we know we don’t know.  For example, I know that I know how to cook.  I also know that I don’t know how to speak Spanish.

But… most important to learn are the things we don’t know that we don’t know.

This is not a typo.  It’s a saying I first heard way back in my self-help days at a Landmark Forum.  A kinder, gentler version of E.S.T.

 Much of my soul-searching has been like this:  sometimes when I gaze up at the night sky I can see a star off to the side in my peripheral vision. But the moment I turn to look directly at it, it disappears.  Gone.

It’s become more important than ever that I learn how to lead without dictatorship.  To direct others with the understanding they are not me and may have their own way of accomplishing a task.  And to offer correction with respect and dignity.

To love those around me as I would love myself.

My new position is challenging me to stay self-aware but with the focus on others.  A challenge that is only happening because of my sobriety.

Today I turn 62.  Today I am sober.

Today I have 117 days by His amazing grace.

It’s been a long tunnel.

I can see the light.