Weighty Issues

I was tooling around the internet this morning and I stumbled on this post by Jane, who wrote:

Wow, 8 lbs lost since the summer! My head was full of glee. I immediately thought, "Just 7 more pounds and I'll be at my goal weight of 115. If I stop eating for a while I could get there!". Wait, I'm going to go back and bold the key part of that sentance... Yes, I thought, "If I stop eating." Not, "If I eat healthier" or "If I go on a diet" or "If I start exercising". See CRAZY.

and this:

Not eating makes me feel powerful. And a little naughty. Like I have a secret strength that no one else has. Kind of like when I had my secret bottle of wine for strength and support? Hmmm, maybe. Looking back, I can see that my "pickyness" as a child/teen had a lot to do with control.

Yikes. I SO could have written this. Right down to the "intestinal problem" which she wisely declined to elaborate on, as will I.

When we brought Mimi home, by train (across Russia) and plane (across the Atlantic) and automobile (across Phoenix), I was overwrought, encountering more emotion in a few weeks than I'd probably felt in my whole life. Plus I always lose weight when I travel, choosing to subsist on bottled water and crackers. Jon, on the other hand, has a stomach of titanium, eating everything including the whole boiled fish we were served on the train. Seriously: the man can eat Russian train fish.

But this time the weight didn't come back once I was home. Sheer terror, I think, kept it going down for a while. But reading Jane's post up there helped me to realize how much of that weight loss was also about control. I'd never considered that becoming a mother would make me feel so out of control and powerless. I'd expected to feel powerful, now that I was responsible for keeping this little being alive, all by myself for hours at a time. I'd expected to rise to the occasion and flex my mommy muscles and lift up the world.

I didn't. I shrank.

By Christmas, I looked awful, but my sick brain told me I looked fine. My clothes were falling off. I was close to 100 lbs, which at 5' 6" is not good. I preferred photos taken from a distance, like this one:

(See those things there? Those are BONES. RIBS. 

Sticking through my SKIN.)

and ones that pretty much completely covered me up, like this one:

(Kindly ignore the skeleton hiding behind the VERY CUTE BABY.)

While purposefully ignoring pictures that showed what I really looked like, like this one:

and this one:

Dark circles under eyes? Check. Teeth dominating entire face? Check. 

Neck veins popping with the effort of SMILING? Check.

Soon after, though, I discovered that alcohol not only a) boosted the effect of the tranquilizers but also b) had a lot of calories, so drinking instead of eating carried all sorts of benefits. Through 2008 I experimented with this miserable equation, telling myself and the world that nothing is wrong this is the happiest time of my life I am on cloud 9 things couldn't be better.

We all know, of course, what was really going on. It was a happy time, but also a noisy time, a sleepless time, a terrifying time... By fall 2008, back at work full time, I was the perfect storm of a bloody mess. 

In rehab I immediately went the other way; I could not stop eating. Stefanie wrote about her struggles with sugar, and I could totally relate. After about a week in the hospital I began to eat. And eat. And eat. I gained 23 pounds in the FIRST MONTH. I ate cereals with names like Choco-Puffs,  pop tart sandwiches (two pop tarts held together with whipped cream in the middle), lasagna made with five cheeses. When I went to my parents' house for a weekend pass, my mom was stunned when lollipops and fudge fell out of my bag. I had been the kid who hid my Hallowe'en candy under the bed so I didn't have to eat it; my mom would find it months later.

So I get it. I get the loss of control and the power and the need to feel just "a little naughty" once again. Right this minute I am neither at the high nor the low end of the range I carved out for myself, and I am determined to regulate myself healthfully, for perhaps the first time ever. 

Which doesn't mean a diet of bread and water. Yesterday, I had terrible cravings -- the worst kind, the kind that whisper that it's all right, I can have one glass, go ahead, no one will notice. I squelched them only with a double-barreled shot of a meeting and a big bowl of ice cream. Chocolate French Silk. 

Trading "looking forward to" for "in the moment"

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.

Letters to my Daughter, February 2010

I will remember February 2010 as the month you really discovered books. We have always loved our evening Bath, Book, Bed sleepytime routine (and really, who wouldn't love a ritual as cozy as this?).

Even the dogs settle down to listen to your father's voice as he reads. I don't know why things have sorted themselves out as they have but he is always the reader. Perhaps it is my doing, because I love listening to his voice as much as you do.

Suddenly, though, without warning you are following me around the house dragging your weight in books, not so I can read to you but so YOU can read to ME (This month has also been punctuated by a litany of "I'll be the mommy, you be the baby, okay?"). You delight in your ability to 'read' a story, and you are quite good; you've memorized every page of "Are You My Mother?" and can tell if I drop so much as a syllable when I read it.

You're still reluctant to completely wean from diapers (okay, I won't go into details) and it's hard for me to simply accept everyone's advice that you'll be ready when you are ready. I know you will, but me being me dictates that I must panic and run for the nearest specialist. You, on the other hand, are not in the least bit bothered by it all and I am so glad for that.

It feels to me like this, when it happens, will be a Really Big Step. It will feel huge, I predict, to no longer have to be sure we have enough of this and we don't forget that whenever we leave the house.  Sometimes as I am running out the door and scanning my mental checklist I am so very aware of these rituals that bond us, gossamer threads slowly detaching one by one by one by one. And I strive to remember to put in place of these mother and baby ties ones that instead bind mother and child, bonds that are more suited to the little girl you are oh so quickly  becoming.

Together, we are exploring our expanding world. We've gone to the library. We've discovered new parks. We've played with new friends. We had a train adventure and we flew kites and we went to the zoo and we danced and we took the dogs for walks around the block. It's been a lovely pink month in our cozy little house.

The other day you came into the room with a pillow under your shirt and announced, "I have a baby in my tummy." My mind whirled through a thousand reactions. Where did you hear that?  Should I have prepared you?  What else was I supposed to have talked with you about before now? As I stood there perplexed, you pulled out the pillow and giggled, "It's just a pillow under my shirt!", delighted with yourself because you 'got' me with your joke. You turned and ran, silver sparkly shoes flying and pink skirt swirling, and you looked so young, so very very young, that just for a moment I allowed myself to believe the impossible: that you will never, ever, ever, ever grow up. 

Monthly Record: Six months post rehab

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

HALT* alert: I HATE it when they WHISPER

Mimi was up all night last night. It's been a long time since Jon and I have had a night like that. We'd almost forgotten that Mimi getting sick guarantees three extremely cranky humans to face the next day.  Jon's still on his murderous work schedule and I have to think that a part of him was ever-so-slightly glad to go to the office. By mid-morning I had cancelled all of the day's plans, including a playdate we were really looking forward to with her best friend Olivia, and it was clear that she wasn't well at all.

She was in one of those special moods, in which she
1) was hungry but she
2) didn't want any food of any kind and she
3) didn't want to wear any clothes, yet she
4) didn't want to be naked, and she
5) didn't feel well enough to sit on the potty even though she
6) couldn't wear a diaper because it was too itchy.

It was one of those moods that turn her into a newborn. a 90-year-old woman, and an infuriated badger AT THE SAME TIME.

So we headed to our pediatrician's office, which is open for sick kids on Sundays. If you manage to hang around in the vomiting, crying, feverish crowd -- and those are the parents -- until the nurse calls your name, then you know your child is sick enough to go to the doctor on Sunday. The verdict: two ears with "raging" infections. One eardrum "bulging" and in danger of bursting. Which we'd know had happened, I was told, if green stuff flows out of her ears. Seriously, if green stuff flows out of her ears we certainly would know what happened because we'd be back at the doctor's office in minutes.

The doctor had had no trouble talking in a normal voice about green stuff and bursting membranes, but she dropped her voice to a whisper to tell me the medicine wouldn't kick in until tomorrow so we could expect Mimi to be "pretty miserable tonight." I didn't feel any better when we got to the drugstore and the pharmacist dropped his voice to a whisper to say that this medicine is really good "but kids hate the taste" and it's "really hard on their stomachs."

So I'm off to bed to cuddle with her and listen to the concert and hope for the best. I'm armed with children's Motrin, a humidifier, and a big bowl of ice cream. Jon will join us soon, as will Tuco and Rosa. The five of us equal nearly 500 pounds of mammal in our queen-sized bed, but it's not too crowded as long as we inhale and exhale in shifts. I'll let you know how it goes.

Take care.

*HALT stands for "hungry, angry, lonely, tired," four conditions that are triggers for many of us.

Haiti Live: Tonight!

Tonight, we'll be watching the Help Haiti Live concert, streaming on the Help Haiti Live website. The country is beginning the long, slow, second wave of relief efforts; the ones that come after the initial disaster response. The longer term efforts often have more difficulty with funding than do the immediate efforts, and there is really never money "left over" to combat the huge obstacles faced as time goes on. So our habit is to give now as the country shifts into long-term relief mode.

Compassion International is our charity of choice.  We've supported secular charities as well but I'm particularly fond of the work these folks do. I know how some of us feel about faith-based organizations, but it works for me; I like their focus on children, it's a passion we share, and my higher power aligns with theirs so we're cool with each other.

I met some of them once and I liked them. It was during one of those middle-of-the-night layovers so familiar to travellers, when you can't let yourself go to sleep because you're in some random, dark, slightly scary airport and everything you own is in your backpack (everything that matters right now, anyway) and there are no gate agents so if you close your eyes you're quite likely to wake up in an empty departure gate, in an unfamiliar country, 15 minutes after your plane left. So you fuel up on coffee and vending-machine food and you visit with your fellow stranded travellers.

I also like their profile at Charity Navigator. Over the years I've grown careful with relief organizations. I hate to be suspicious of a charity, for heaven's sakes, but one we donated to once turned out to be a scam. So we're glad there are groups out there helping us to spend our charity money wisely.

So please tune in. I am especially excited to hear Jars of Clay. Their song "Show You Love" is our theme song, of sorts, Jon's and Mimi's and mine. It's just amazing and captures the essence of international adoption so perfectly. I still cry every time I hear it. You might, too.

I hope they play it tonight.

Take care,
Robin

Danny the Dragon

Earlier this week, Mimi got a gift in the mail, a new book! She is just beginning to fall in love with books, so she was really excited about Danny the Dragon Meets Jimmy. Even though we'd just gotten home, hadn't even taken off our shoes yet (always the first thing we do), we had to sit down and READ IT READ IT READ IT RIGHT NOW. So I was kinda primed to read it quickly and get on with making dinner.

But we liked it too much. We even ended up putting the DVD in and watching it. We admired Danny's red shoes. We drew pictures of Danny and his sidekick, Skipper. We stopped just short of going out to find our own magic seashell (Danny's preferred mode of transportation).

For Danny, it turns out, is a magic dragon who travels the world in a beautiful green and white shell, aided by his navigator, Skipper. (Please don't ask me what Skipper is: a mini-dragon, perhaps? A chameleon? He's cute and small and green and wears a sailor hat. That's all I know.) In this book their 'talking' shell captures Jimmy's imagination and, once at Jimmy's house, they join Jimmy's family for a fun summer evening.

It's a sweet book with a simple storyline and gentle characters. What I particularly liked about it is that it wraps its lessons up in a story. We see how much the family members enjoy time with each other, how helpful Danny is in washing up the dinner dishes, how lovingly mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers speak to each other. It communicates volumes about good manners and respect without ever being didactic.

Mimi didn't catch all that, of course, not directly, but at least she didn't embarrass me by saying the characters' behavior was totally foreign to her. She just loved the bright colors and clear illustrations. She loves that as much is told in the pictures -- in the soup bowls on the table, in the faces of the children playing in the yard -- as in the simple words. Mostly, she loves the character of Skipper. So much so that we've read the book at least twice a day since it arrived, and she wants a little green navigator of her own. And, really, don't we all?

Me: A chemistry experiment

Of the many, many insane things I did in active addiction, turning myself into an experiment was one of the most dangerous. By the time I became truly addicted, in the fall of 2008, I'd fooled around with Xanax for so long I could gauge its effect on my body to the minute.

It had first been prescribed a decade before then, and at the time I thought I'd discovered a miracle. I could be paralyzed with anxiety, swallow a pill, and within 15 minutes the grip of panic would begin to loosen. Within half an hour, I'd be okay. It didn't matter where I was -- on a smelly bus deep in Ukraine, creeping through a tiny Pakistani airport in the middle of the night, camping at12,000 feet on a snowy mountain.

Without the pills I was scared to leave my bed; with them, I could go anywhere. I was free.

I would tell myself, and I soon found a doctor who would also tell me, that I had a medical condition, very much like diabetes. I had a glitch in the system, a malfunctioning chemical pathway, and just like a diabetic administers insulin when she needs it, I took Xanax. No big deal. Better living through chemistry.

Add caffeine and the equation is complete. You can find coffee anywhere; even at 12,000 feet someone will have Sanka in his backpack. I'd never been able to drink more than one cup without getting the fearful jitters, but this soon became a non-issue. Over the years, knowing where to get coffee became as vital as knowing how many pills were sewn into the lining of my purse.

My formula was crude but effective: Xanax to soothe, coffee to awaken. If I took too much of one, I always had the other to balance it out. Such hubris: I truly thought I could lift myself up and down, toward and away from consciousness, at my will. And what's more, I thought this was good. I could study deep into the night, reach a stopping place and swallow a Xanax and, reliably, I would sleep for a few hours. A cup of coffee, a shower, start all over again.

When Mimi came along, everything intensified, as it does. Fifteen-hour train ride from Moscow to Kirov? No worries. Up all night? Reverse the equation and fall asleep, on cue, as soon as Jon wakes up for his turn. I felt like a machine, stepping on the gas pedal to go and on the brakes to slow down. I was in charge of my body; whatever could be wrong with that?

Sometimes I miss the sense of control -- no, I constantly miss the sense of control. That's the great paradox of the alcoholic and addict. We're among the most fragile people on the planet, the least in control, yet we assure ourselves that we have it all wrapped up. We feel relieved of the fears and limitations that have imprisoned us our whole lives.

And it works, until it doesn't. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, I increased this dose or that dose. My alchemy became less reliable. I would need more of one or the other to achieve the same effect. I discovered that alcohol boosted the effects of the tranquilizers, and because I didn't need a prescription for booze I added more and more of it, which of course meant I soon was drinking more and more coffee later and later in the day. In what I assured myself would be a one-time thing, but which in fact became a habit, on the first day of Lent in 2009 I just cut to the chase and started the day with Irish coffee.

And that was the beginning of the end.

Reader, I took the medicine (Part II)

I had pneumonia last December, and I shared here about my decision to take prescription cough medicine. I'd like to say I took it, it helped, life went on, and it did, but first the addict who lives in my head woke up and started running in the hamster wheel. One day, for no apparent reason, I had an impulse to grab a gulp. I cooked up a whole scheme in which I'd buy some safe cough medicine, pour it out, replace it with the ... OH MY GOD. So I found a meeting, shared these impulses with a roomful of strangers, was comforted by their nods and smiles. Recovery, after all, relies on human connections. There's a saying: to get better we have to change "people, places, and things." A counselor at my treatment center used to say that what "people, places, and things" really came down to was "people, people, and people."

So, people, people, and people, welcome to my accountability circle. I hope I can do the same for you.

This time, it's a narcotic for pain relief. An old shoulder injury that usually annoys intermittently has flared up into real pain. The muscles around my shoulder tightened and have started to regularly spasm, and since it's no fun to spasm alone they've invited my neck and back muscles along. Last weekend found me hunched over to the right, trying not to use any muscles from my waist up, my body shaped like a C. I was going from heat to ice and back, and I could not sleep. I got a massage, which went on for two hours before the therapist gave up trying to loosen the muscles. So we went to the doctor, who looked at my hunchback shape and asked if I had been under any stress. Oh, boy. Where do I start?

She handed me a prescription. I told her I was in recovery and she said it was up to me to take the medicine or not. She wished me luck. Immediately I felt lousy. Just knowing those prescriptions were in my purse threw me back to my bad old days when prescriptions were just the ticket. Plotting, hiding, hoarding, figuring out ways to get more, and counting. The ENDLESS counting. Do I have enough to get through the weekend? It's a long flight, I'd better bring extra. How many here.... okay, put a few in the pillbox... it's been two hours since I took one, hang on for another two...

But pain is a powerful motivator. We got the medicine, and I have taken it. Exactly as prescribed. I don't hurt anymore and I can stand up straight. Jon keeps the medicine in a safe in his closet, which is awkward, he feels like a warden, but we both feel it is important that we do this. I am deeply aware of the dangers, of what I am capable of doing once I get a taste of my drug. I've done it all before, right in front of people -- the special privilege of the pill-popper -- so yes, I know.

I can't claim that the hamsters in my head are quiet, no, not at all. I am glad that they will not let me forget what I am, what I can do to myself. I will see the specialist tomorrow. This is a new doctor and she will take a new history and once again I'll tell my story to a new person. I'll share: with the doctor, with you, in meetings, especially with Jon. We are a team, and together we'll be okay.

Please take a look at this article about women abusing prescription pills. Switch occupations and hair color and this woman could be me. She could be anybody.

Watching my garden grow

Once upon a time, in the not-too-distant past,

my backyard looked like this:

(I think every backyard

wants a dog in it.)

This is Rosa.

If you stopped by, she'd come right up and say hello.

This is Tuco.

He would keep his distance. He's shy.

Our house faces east, so the 

backyard at twilight is magical.

The ground under our house is a hard, packed clay.

So I like to grow ornamental plants in pots.

I love color.

My favorites are hydrangeas.

These came from the backyard.

I think everyone feels

just a bit more peaceful

around growing things.

But...

(It's hard to post this picture. It captures the neglect so well.)

My yard is so sad right now.

While I've been growing, 

it's been dying.

I can hardly bear to look at it.

Tuco is more tolerant.

So...

My spring pledge is to fix it up.

The way it wants to be.

The way it should be.

So we can once again take advantage of our weather.

I have a helper I can enlist.

Not to mention,

summer's on its way.

Disney, you sly fox, you...

We've added a new princess to our stable: Ariel joined our DVD collection. Snow White and Cinderella are the grandes dames of the Disney princess world, but the Little Mermaid (released in 1989!) was the first modern princess. And oh, was she modern.

I know it's simple coincidence, but I'll always remember that right in the middle of this oh-so-looooooong princess phase, Jon and I took Mimi to see her first movie in a theater, and it was The Princess Frog. On a Friday night, with popcorn, and wearing her princess dress, of course. She was absolutely enthralled until about the last 10 minutes, when she suddenly could not have cared less who kissed whom and who was destined to be a frog forever -- it was late and her popcorn was gone and she still had to take a bath and the sun has gone sleepies why am I still awake and why did you give me raisins and cheese for dinner that's not a real dinner TAKE ME HOME NOW.

Princess Frog was the scariest Disney princess movie I'd seen in a while ... with the skulls and the fire and the scary voodoo man. I'd forgotten how frightening Little Mermaid was, so when Mimi came into the kitchen to report that things were looking dire, I put down our dinner preparations to sit with her on the sofa and watch for a few minutes. When Jon came home, she announced that the scariest part was when "the sea witch locked Ariel up in the castle so she couldn't go to the ball but she turned into a frog and jumped out!"

An open letter: update

So, after a weekend of struggling with this, this is where I am. The issue is personally painful still and also interesting, in that it highlights the intersection between my public and private lives. As I said on Friday, I want the two to be seamless; at the same time my writing life necessarily offers only my perspective -- events as I alone see them. Add to that that I choose to write anonymously, to protect my family from unwanted attention; they, however, do have full access to this site. So it is a weird situation all around, neither fully anonymous nor fully public. 

Like so many other bloggers, I write because I feel compelled to; it offers connections in my all-too-stretched-out social world; it is what we do in the 21st century instead of pony express or meeting on the town promenade. The process of writing also helps me be a more thoughtful person and by inviting comments it helps me understand myself and others better, too. It is a virtual record of Mimi as she grows, and of my recovery as it, too, grows. I can use this as a forum to share my life in the West with my relatives in the East. It also has helped me find, and participate in the lives of, other people in my situation. Mothers in recovery is still a pretty esoteric group, and we rely on each other powerfully.

Although I would suggest that every writer ever has drawn on her life for inspiration, it will never be my intention to live my life in such a way as to generate things to write about. These things happened, in all the decades I lived before I started this, and still happen, every day. I participate, observe, photograph, write. I hope it is ultimately for the better.


In the end, I value my human relationships more than the blog, if it had to come to that, but I hope it doesn't. I have exaggerated for effect before, and I apologize very much for that, and I will be extra careful not to do that in the future. I do not think this blog is fundamentally mean-spirited. It is not gentle, but I just don't think it is vicious in word or tone. I do not intend to harm any real person in my life (celebrities and other people who willingly put themselves on TV are fair game to me) and if I fail to see that I do so, by all means call my attention to it. I will appreciate it.

An open letter

I received a call earlier from someone I hurt deeply with this blog, someone whom I would never want to harm, but I did. That is an amends I will face privately. Here, in the same public forum in which I did the damage, I mention it because I want to say: please remember to be gentle with the feelings of others. I wasn't, and that wouldn't be bad if it had hurt only me, but it hurt someone who wasn't even here to take part in the conversation.

I've spent the evening thinking about what this blog is all about. It was started as a place to chronicle life post-rehab. It is growing into a community; I am connecting with people whom I would not have met otherwise. In sharing my own story, though, I've blurred the line between the life I share on this blog and the one I actually live. I can't forget what I am, though, not ever. When I got off the phone my first desire was to ask Jon to open the locked-up suitcase in the garage that contains my old prescriptions so I could have one, just one, tranquilizer. It's all about numbness for us, about refusing to accept that I am going to be sitting up all night with a sick conscience.

My name is Robin, but that is not my first name. My husband's name isn't Jon, and my daughter's name isn't Mimi. I know I am not the first blogger to shield her family behind false names; that is common. This isn't about that. This is about honesty and selfishness and consideration. Honesty is an odd concept to discuss in an anonymous forum, but I know that while I was busy applauding myself for my emotional honesty, I failed the simple truths that must be maintained in order to claim ANY kind of integrity. I have not, as we say in recovery, been impeccable with word and deed.

My blog-world is only as healthy as my real-world, and both could use some attention. Be careful out there.

Tiger. Vienna. Tenley. How can I ever get any work done?

Today is one of those days when the to-do list is so unappetizing that I end up going off the grid and doing stuff like cleaning out the spices cabinet and watching mea culpa speeches on Hulu. I can't help but find Tiger Woods poignant. It's hard to exactly stick up for him, and I don't; I'm not sure where I stand except to say that I get addiction and the horrid, horrid things we do under its influence even without gazillions of dollars to pay for it and "best friends" to cover it up but that does NOT excuse us so... dude? Get it together.

I also watched an episode of the Bachelor recently on another gray day, and sad to say I'm hooked. But there is an understanding that is necessary to enjoy this kind of thing, this particular brand of human drama: if this is the game these women want to play, then I'll watch, but do you ever get the feeling that some of these women signed up for badminton and landed on the rugby field?

It isn't painful to watch a rejected contestant wail in a limo because you can reasonably rest assured that she'll be fine; as soon as she's signed on the next show she'll forget that she couldn't go on without bachelor so-and-so. (Anyone want to bet Ali is a future bachelorette?)  It isn't difficult to watch a bachelor mull over two roses lying on a pillow because the true emotional content just isn't any deeper than that: two roses lying on a pillow.

But this feels different. I haven't watched it before so I can't compare, but do they always pit a sexpot like Vienna against a damaged sweetheart like Tenley? It is a brilliant setup from a bookmaker's point of view: surely Tenley will prevail, so we can all glean the lesson that good girls win the handsome boys but surely Vienna will get the final rose, so the dramatic tension of the triumphant girl-everyone-loves-to-hate will pay off.

But the real drama is that these two women don't belong anywhere near a reality show. Ali, yes, she's a pro, go for it. Gia, sure; she's a New Yorker, and is a model so she knows about distinguishing the fake from the real. But Tenley? The one who doesn't know any better than to announce on television that she has only slept with her husband, who then cheated on her? And Vienna? Who is so immature she thinks it's adorable to parade around in a white negligee? WHO IS ADVISING THESE WOMEN? Where are their peeps?

I believe fully and powerfully in self-responsibility, a stance only made possible by our social contracts. As in, I will keep my side of the street clean but because I am not all-knowing or all-seeing I know I can trust you and you and you to help me see when I've missed a spot or to suggest I might be wandering down the wrong road. I know you love me. I value your opinion. Thank you for the help and I hope I can return the favor. For me, it's Jon and my mother and my sisters and a couple of close friends (none of whom could protect me from falling but all of whom are helping me get up again). I am grateful.

Tiger Woods desperately needs friends who will hold a mirror up to his behavior instead of booking flights for his mistresses. Tenley and Vienna needed people to gently remind them that this Bachelor stuff is TV and therefore not for the faint of heart. If your real motive is true love, then take the same amount of time, the same financial investment and the same emotional expenditure and I guarantee there are ways to invest them that will get you a hell of a lot closer to real love.

Solidarity

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.

Valentine's Day, 2010

I'm convinced that life doesn't let you suffer too long, if you do your part: sleep, eat, be of service, have faith. Sunday brought to my house the best Valentine's Day ever. You know, best day recovery style: full of love and giggles and predictable enough. We rode the train into the hills to visit a petting zoo. It had been a long time since, instead of writhing in anxiety, I could see and feel the beauty in such a day.
     Best of all were my travelling companions. A fluffy haired moppet who danced in fountains and spun in her princess dress, and a gentle man whose tired eyes relaxed and smiled and enjoyed. Who could ask for more?

First we bought our tickets at the train station, an old fashioned building of wood and steel.

Then we looked for the train. It was a little late.

My Valentine makes even waiting fun

My Valentine wonders if trolls live under the platform

(there weren't any)

My Valentine lets little girls have the window seat

My Valentine has the best lap when naptime is on-the-go

My Valentine knows little trains are as important as big ones

My Valentine feeds all the goats, not just the ones who are pushy

My Valentine helps when shoes get pinchy

My Valentine brings the playground to you

My Valentine loves to hold hands, and

my Valentine loves me.

Happy Valentines Day!

I love holidays ... they're such good times to celebrate happy things. We all love someone or something, so please tell me ... where is your heart today?

HALT alert: NO MONSTERS IN THIS HOUSE

It's 1:02 AM as I begin to type. Jon and I fell asleep four hours ago watching His Girl Friday on Jon's laptop (we've learned to work around the whole not-having-TV thing).Mimi came into our room half an hour ago and I got up to change her pull-up. The room tilted left, then tilted right, and right now it's swirling around and it's way warmer in here than it should be and the floor feels about a mile away from my head. I can't sleep.
    I feel drunk; I swallowed some cold medicine before bed on an empty stomach. Just some over-the-counter, no-alcohol, generic brand cold medicine.That has to be it. I don't like this feeling at all and yet I used to seek out this sensation on purpose. Add that to the long list of things that make no sense to my alcoholic brain. Ugh.
     But if I dig deeper I have to admit there is more at play. Jon and I started this week with a fight about moving back east -- I want to; he doesn't; we've been fighting about this for 10 years. He's been working nonstop. I haven't been to a meeting or called or gotten a sponsor. I goofed up the time of a playdate for Mimi. I have been reading Caroline Knapp's Drinking: A Love Story, which has led to way too much time in my head. I haven't prayed. On Monday night I stayed up to make apple bread for my Tuesday faculty meeting, and then we overslept and it was raining and Jon couldn't take Mimi to school and I ended up staying home. I bought Valentine's Day cards for my relatives and forgot to send them on time. On Thursday, I went to work and left my laptop sitting on the kitchen floor.
     Put simply: I've let recovery slip. I haven't paid attention and I haven't used the tools and I haven't dialed the phone. I have not been grateful. I've set expectations for myself and failed to meet them, charging back to feeling hugely inadequate, which is miserable but familiar territory. It's been a week like the weeks I used to live all the time. I have felt the dark pull of despair, always waiting just right there.
     NO.MONSTERS.IN.THIS.HOUSE.
     This is a chant Mimi likes to do before bed, when we've turned down the lights and the stick-on constellations Jon carefully applied to her ceiling are glowing softly. We hold hands, a trinity, and warn off interlopers in our deepest voices. She giggles, but I know she is serious about the monsters. And I know how to do this now, how to right myself and fend off the demons. I know how to have faith that it will get better if I keep doing the next right thing. I know it will be all right if I get up tomorrow and remember to be gentle with myself and others, set reasonable goals for the day, go to a meeting, call my sister, fix dinner and read stories and take a nap and return the email that has been waiting a week to be acknowledged. These things will be done, and the doing will feel good, will be good. And if I just keep doing that, the monsters will stay out of my house.

And the identity crisis continues...

It's Friday once again, and I find myself kicking around in "who am I" quandary. I'm still discovering who I want to be, in particular, on the web. It's not an existential issue, I'm more honest than I've ever been and will jump at any and all chances to turn "blog friendships" into real ones (anyone want to meet? Let's plan!).  It's more of the kind of thing you go through if you stop to think about what you see in the mirror. What does my hair tell you? What do my clothes say about me? Probably anything anyone would ever want to know, actually, is summed up in the chipped red nail polish that's been bugging me for a week, ever since I let Mimi paint my nails before I remembered I don't have any remover and every single day I've meant to stop and get some, have walked right by it in the store, and still haven't bought any. So I've been picking away at it and it looks awful but I mostly notice that when I'm typing which means I am nowhere near a store.

So that's me outside blogworld. Inside blogworld, I'm trying to clean things up, so if my blog looks goofy for a few days or has links to nowhere, please come back... I'm working on it!

Take care,
Robin