I am trying to sort out my experiences and thoughts to better understand how to move forward and not stay stuck in the past.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Chicken Little

Did you ever experience something that felt significant, but you really weren't sure why?  I just had that happen.  I know it is a learning moment for me as well as some kind of insight. I'm still trying to clarify it in my head, though.

I live in an old house.  When we bought the house, we were just told it was over sixty years old.  Several years ago, I was washing the basement floor, getting ready to paint it a light blue color because being an old house, the basement looked a little scary, and a blue floor was my attempt at cheering it up a bit.  Once I started painting it, I noticed that under the stairs someone had written in the wet cement the year the foundation was poured:  October 21, 1910.  (Ironically, October 21 is my son's birthday).  This house is over 100 years old.  It still has some beautiful features that have aged very gracefully.  Seven fire places, all different.  All beautifully carved.  An oak staircase with expertly detailed banister and railing.  Some of the stairs have been slightly worn at the edges by an  untold number of feet running up and down through the years.  On the landing is a large stained glass window.  The pipes that once provided gas for the lights are capped off but still protrude slightly from various walls.  The ceilings and walls are plaster.  Most of them (the ceilings) have a few fine cracks running through them.  Twice, part of the ceiling has fallen. Once, in the kitchen, when we had a blizzard, and the snow had started as rain, then wet snow and then a lot of snow that piled onto the roof.  Once it started melting, the water found it's way through uncaulked windows, and through the walls, dripping into the ceiling.  I was laying in bed the night I heard the crash.  At the time I knew what it was.  The water had been dripping all day in one spot.  A lot of my friends had the same kind of damage done to their homes for the same reason.  The first time the ceiling fell, was shortly after we moved in.  It wasn't the weather. It was just because it was old, but a small section in the attic crashed down.  Other than that, the house, generally, has been very sturdy and reliable. 

My daughter decided to start drinking, again.  I'm pretty sure it was because her father contacted her but that's another issue.  Anyway,  I was sleeping, and was jarred awake by her yelling my name.  This doesn't usually happen.  I stumbled out of bed and into her room not knowing what to expect. There she was sitting on her bed looking up at the ceiling.  "What's wrong?"  She was pointing up at the ceiling and said,  "I think these cracks are new.  I haven't seen them before.  Not this many."  I rubbed my eyes, and looked up.  "First, there aren't that many.  Second, it looks the same as it always has."   "No.  No.  This looks different."  I looked at the clock.  Two in the morning.  What happened next was that I found myself arguing about the number of fine lined cracks in the ceiling.  She insisted there were more.  I knew there weren't.  Back and forth until I finally said, "So what?  So what if there are more cracks?  What's the worst that can happen?"  She looked at me with a blank stare.  "What if it falls on me?"  "You might get a bruise."   The look on her face struck something in me, and I said, again, "What's the worst that can happen?  If it falls, we call the insurance company and get it fixed.  That's it."  Again, she looked at me.  I asked her if she understood and she nodded.  I went back to bed.

Here's the insight I'm working on.  First, never argue with a person under the influence.  But more importantly, I think, is the metaphor of that whole conversation with life in general.  The angst I was starting to feel (maybe feeding into her anxiety) was starting to get me worked up inside.  What if it did fall?  What would we do?  I was feeling a little like Chicken Little.  And then, out of no where the calming thought of, 'So what?' occurred to me.  "What's the worst that could happen?"  Really, after experiencing what I've experienced, the worst that could happen so far has already happened, and here I still am, figuring it out and moving on.  Life goes on. We experience. We clean up.  We repair.  We grieve. We move on.  That conversation at two in the morning was like dawn for me.  What's the worst that could happen?  After enough 'worsts', even the very worst eventually doesn't seem that unmanageable.

Thursday, February 21, 2013


I admit, and with some shame having experienced what I have with my daughter, that I used to be the person who was making mental judgments on people and going along with others with our smirk and a nod "secret hand shake", when I heard about someone's relative, friend, child, or husband who had problems with alcohol or drugs.  The automatic yoke of 'lesser person' would be attached to them mentally and no thought of compassion would be able to squeeze through that burdensome label.

I don't do that now.  My first reaction, actually, is more of respect.  A respect in understanding that somewhere down inside this person is a hurt or imbalance of some kind and this person put down their  healthy coping tools for a moment for something that seemed better, and have now misplaced the appropriate equipment to manage their fears. Though I can't fully understand what is going on inside of their minds, I can now appreciate the struggles they have in trying to deal with daily trials.  I can appreciate that while everyone is fundamentally the same in being human, we're all so uniquely different in who we are and how we use the gifts we've been given--gifts I might add that come with no user manual--that sometimes, or many times, we will all mess up.  I understand better, now, that some of those mess ups can feel debilitating to some people and they turn down a harder path. 

Few people I know view it like this.  They are me a few years ago.  My core friends understand because surprisingly, they have either gone through it on their own or have a family member who has, but most people do not.  I can still see that 'secret hand shake" look when the topic comes up at work about a parent of a child in school, or their relative who is struggling with drugs or alcohol.  Now, I offer a tiny nudge toward understanding by saying something like, "What a horrible thing to happen,"  or "They must be really struggling."  Comments like that to try and soften the judgement.

It's like that with a parent of a student that just came into my class.  Before the meeting, from my supervisor and counselor, the secretary and another teacher, I was told about how the mother is. She's an active drug addict.  She can manipulate. She can be confrontational.  She can cause trouble.  The dad is also into drugs, but he doesn't say much.  Sometimes the neighbor takes care of the kids. With that last comment, there is a look that means neighbor care = mom is using.  "Okay."  Was my response.  I learned along time ago to use what other people say about someone else as a kind of a seasoning about who the person really is.  (Once, I received paperwork on a child that stated he,"liked to break things, so be careful."  After getting to know him, and asking him what he liked to do, he told me he liked to take clocks and various little machines like that apart, but once he got them apart, he didn't know how to put them back together.  He wasn't breaking anything. He was discovering how things work).  So, I listened and went into the meeting.  Both parents were there.  Both had the shadow of attractive faces, though the roughness of their lives showed in their eyes and disheveled hair. The mother had no teeth.  She looked much older than her young thirty-five years.  I could smell alcohol on the dad.  My first impression was, "Wow, they've both come."   I was impressed.  After talking with them  and explaining my classroom and how it runs, they had good questions and concerns.  The mother was not being argumentative.  She was making sure her child was being placed in the right environment.  She has another younger child, who's name she said.  Both of her children have beautiful names.  After she said her youngest's name, I stopped her, repeated both names, and complimented her on what beautiful names she had chosen for her children.  Her face softened, she smiled and thanked me.  After the meeting I walked her to my classroom so that she could see where her child would spend his day.  The youngest child wouldn't leave the arms of the dad.  When we returned to the classroom, the oldest child jumped up and hugged her.  Regardless of their situation, this is a family who loves each other very much. 

The mother has sent in notes almost daily, saying how happy she is that her child is in my class.  Her handwriting is beautiful. Her spelling perfect. 

Out of every bad situation, good can grow.  For me, the good that has grown from my situation here is that I am more understanding.  I am more willing to take off my black leather heals to try on someone else's moccasins.  I can walk around in them and and be willing to appreciate the path those moccasins have walked. 

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Facing Your Fears

Yesterday was a second workshop for my friend's book promotion.  It was about facing your fears. Earlier in the week, I had asked my daughter if she would go with me.  She said she would.  Friday night I reminded her.  Her response was,"Yes."  She asked me who would be there, and some other questions.  I knew she was getting nervous.  She is afraid of questions she might get asked.  "How are you?"  and "What are you doing?"  have become like magnifying glass sledgehammers to her.  She is so afraid, still, that she needs to be on the path that everyone else is on, that, it makes her avoid people, I think. Anyway, I wasn't going to argue if she changed her mind, though I was praying that she would still go.  The speaker is interesting and has a good way of presenting ideas. 

The talk was at 10:30.  It was 9:00 and she wasn't up yet, so I went upstairs to wake her.  I tried several times, but she wouldn't wake up.  I tried, again, at 9:40.  She did wake up, but said she had to take a shower, when was I leaving?  I told her that she would have about half an hour to get ready.  I new this might happen.  I do think she wanted to go, but I also think that she was dragging her feet in the beginning, because she was afraid.  We ended up leaving the house around 10:25 and arrived at the library where it was being held at 10:50.  As we were walking up the stairs, she made the comment about the time.  Initially, I did think, "We're too late, may as well turn around."  But that inner voice, I think, was working on my legs, and I just kept walking.  "Are we going to make a big scene going in?"  she whispered to me.  I think it was her last small attempt to turn around.  "No," I whispered back, and pushed open the door.  We walked in, and found seats.  The writer was  in the back where we were, and as my daughter was sitting down, she looked over and waved.  My daughter smiled and waved back. 

As always with me, when I am listening to someone with a good teaching, that I know applies to what the person I'm sitting with is going through, I spend the first few minutes, kind of straining my ears.  I think I do this as a way of 'listening for them.'  I am so eager for them to hear it all, that I try to hear if they are listening!  When I do that, I find that I can't focus on the information that I also need to hear.  I am a fearful person on the inside.  I worry about a lot.  I needed to hear this, too. Of course, I was so fearful that she would decide not to come, I completely forgot a paper and pen on which to write points down.  So, I have to rely on my memory.

Here are some points that she made:

Fear is heavy.  If you are too fearful and carry fear around, you probably feel tired and exhausted. 

Fear takes harbor in your stomach area.  That is way so many people can have intestinal and stomach issues if they are fearful, because it 'resides' there.  Fear can take up space in your body. 

If your body is full of fear, there isn't room for much else.  You have to release the fear.

Be aware of your dreams. The subconscious holds onto everything and dreams can bring a lot out.  A quote she referenced said something to the effect that dreams are God's forgotten language.

The mind can be a big torturer.  Relieve it of it's whip. 

The average person has over 600,000 (it may be one more or one less zero) thoughts that go through your head a day.  If you don't have control over your mind, these thoughts can be overwhelming.

In the bible it reminds us to, "Fear Not," 79 times. 

The four F's of facing your fear:  Feel it,Face it , Figure it out, Forsake it.

The A,B,C's of over coming fearful thoughts/negative thinking:  Aware-be aware of what you are thinking; Block-push the negative thought away- your not going to think about that;Change-move your thinking/thought to something new and better.

She said that facing your fears, understanding them and then letting them go gets rid of them.  Running away from your fears, only gives them more power over you.  Like a beach ball that you hold underwater. It keeps pushing on you.  Once you let it go, it pops out of the water. 

Willpower is the key to overcoming your fears because you have to change the thinking, but it can be done.

She said that she loves the book, the Road Less Traveled, and the first sentence that says,"Life is difficult."  She found relief it that.  That is wasn't just hard for her, but everyone.  But, it can be lived with joy as well as sorrow, the choice is yours. 

There was some discussion and people giving their views and experiences, too.  A lot of the information, I already knew, but like that Driver's Ed. course, there is something about seeing those crashes in the movies they show that brings it home.   There is something about hearing that other people struggle, too, that makes it easier to understand and fight your own. 

At the end of the workshop, the writer came over to us. Hugged us and told us she wanted to go to lunch sometime soon.  She asked my daughter how she was doing.  "Good."  She asked my daughter what she was doing, "Thinking of going back to school."  She hugged her, again, and told her how glad she was to see her.  (Thank you, God, I was thinking, for getting her here).

We talked about the workshop on the ride home and periodically throughout the day.  For dinner, we ordered Chinese.  My daughter's fortune cookie said, "Your moods signal a period of change."  Mine said, "Put some old business behind you today."  She said, "They're both talking about change. We should put things in the past, and move on."  "Thank you, God," I said to myself.

Friday, February 15, 2013


It was my first year in college when there had been some uprising in the Middle East.  I lived in an apartment building on the sixth floor with my roommate.  On the third floor, rooming together, were three friends of mine.  They were like the younger version of the Golden Girls minus Blanche.  That being the case, I'll use those names instead of their real ones.  'Rose' was six feet tall, very country and kind hearted, with just a touch of naivete about life.  'Sophia' was exactly like the character.  A short, passively-feisty, Italian girl who was somewhat shy until you got to know her.  She reminded me of a mix between a bulldog and a beagle.  'Dorothy' was opinionated, strong willed, driven, kind and severely Christian.  It was a fun combination of friends to be around.  This was a time in my life, where I was beginning my struggles with God.  Again, I believed and hoped, but wasn't committed as firmly as I should have been. 

Dorothy had invited me to various evening lectures by various Christian leaders.  One had been Josh McDowell (I think that's how you spell his name).  Anyway, I think that it was his story that helped to turn the tide for me.  So, Dorothy and I would have conversations about God at different times.  Rose and Sophia were not as 'convicted' as Dorothy.  Good people, kind, but not as 'rigid' in their thinking about God.

Anyway, Dorothy had been watching the news, very concerned about the conflict in the Middle East.  The rest of us were not too involved.  We were going home for spring break.  I was going to ride with Dorothy, Rose and Sophia had other rides.  It was the morning of the day we were leaving to go home.  Dorothy came up to my apartment, looking very serious.  Back in those days, packing wasn't such a huge ordeal, so I was just stuffing a sweatshirt into my tiny suitcase, when I heard the knock. 
I opened the door, and Dorothy, almost in a military march, moved past me into the kitchen. 
"We need to talk."  "Okay, what's wrong?"  (To be honest, my first thought was 'are you still taking me home?'  because it would have been too late to find another ride and I really wanted to get home.)  "Have you been listening to the news?"  "No.  Why?"   With a long and detailed explaination, the jist of it was that Dorothy was convinced, well almost certain, that this lastest conflict in the Middle East could be the sign that the Rapture would be happenening soon.  "The what?"  She explained what it was, and then went on to say that she knew her parents weren't saved, and that she had written a letter to them.  She had considered giving it to me to give to them, but in her words, "I'm not too sure about what's going to happen to you."  I was taking it all in,  not to sure what it all meant, but her seriousness about the whole situation warned me that there was no room for arguement or joking.   

Feeling uneasy, now, about being alone (my roommate had already left) I picked up my suitcase, turned off the lights and locked the door. We left the apartment to go downstairs to her's where Sophia and Rose were still getting ready.  She had decided to give the letter to Rose to give to her parents. 

I followed her into the apartment.  Rose and Sophia were in the kitchen. I said hi to everyone, and then stood and watched the expressions as Dorothy explained her plan.  She handed the letter to Rose, and left to finish packing.  A complete look of confusion came over Rose's face.  "Why did she give this to me?  Isn't she going to see her parents?"  "Did you understand about what she thinks is going to happen?"  "I guess."  "Well, she thinks that her parents are going to be 'staying'.  She's not too sure about me, or I would have the letter. But she's sure about you."  I watched as the intention of what her new responsibility was implying, finally 'sunk in.'   Rose's expression changed from bewilderment, to understanding to insulted,  "Hey!"  "Yep. She's going and you're staying."  It was the first time that I could laugh about a situation that I was finding very surreal. 

Fast forward to the ride home. Dorothy was driving and I was in the passenger's seat feeling more and more nervous and unsure.  I didn't do much of the talking.  Dorothy was focused on her reasoning. (Really, what do you talk about in the car when one of you might be taken in the rapture any second).  I have to admit, I was preparing to grab the wheel should she depart during the ride home.  Then it happened.  We hit a pothole.  I am a pretty reserved and quiet person.  I'm not a screamer. But I screamed loud and clear when we hit that pothole. The tension had built up so much in me, being a captive audience to her reasoning, that I couldn't contain it anymore.  I must have closed my eyes for a few seconds, because I remember realizing that we had stopped, but that the radio was still playing.  I opened my eyes, realized my hands were over my mouth, and turned to see Dorothy looking at me like I had three heads.  "What is wrong with you?"  I just bit my lips and shook my head. My hands resting limply in my lap. "We hit a pothole."  I nodded.  There was no damage and the tire was fine, so we continued on our journey.  Needless to say, the rapture was postponed.

I think about that event a lot.  Why did I allow myself to get so caught up in someone else's drama? I think about how one person can be so driven in a direction that may not be the best, and pull others along.  I do think she was truly worried about her parents.  I do admire her conviction, but not her methods. Not her judgement. 

How do I apply this to my experience with addiction?  Well, allowing myself to get pulled into other people's drama, but that can happen anywhere.  The most important for me is the judgment that Dorothy handed out.  Making judgments can be necessary. Judging safe from unsafe is important. Judging what you like, we do that all of the time.  But judging someone's interior, making a judgment about someone's heart and feelings is harmful to everyone. The person handing down the judgement, as well as the person being judged.  That friendship between Dorothy and Rose did fizzle and that morning was the cause. When I do find myself starting to get sucked into that kind of judgement, my first thought is always, "Only God knows someone's heart,"  and I let it go. 

Friday, February 8, 2013

Order and Routine

I'm obsessed with Downton Abbey.  Last year, a friend at work, told me about it.  I guess I wasn't really listening, because I thought she had said 'Downtown Abbey'.  At first it didn't sound appealing because I thought it was about a department store.  But, she sounded so interested in it, that I eventually found it and was hooked.  It's about a wealthy British family and the group of people who serve them.  They live in, well it looks like a castle, called Downton Abbey, in an English village called Downton during the early 1900's.  The dialogue is simple, the pace is slow, Maggie Smith has all of the good one-liners. So why is it so appealing to me?  (How goofy, that with all that goes on in the world, I spend my thinking time trying to figure out why I like Downton Abbey.  Go figure).  But I have been thinking about it and have come up with two words--Order and Routine. 

The servants have a daily routine. The family, well, they spend a lot of time dressing for dinner.  What a wonderful idea, dressing for dinner.    There is a sense of purpose, even with the maids. There is respect.  Lord Grantham, the lord of the estate, is a gracious and benevolent man, as are the members of his family.  He's wealthy and kind.  What a wonderful concept for a character.  The different servants have uniforms for that specific job.  The family is always dressed 'appropriately' with hats and gloves, gowns and coiffured hair.  They talk with good grammar and respect.  It is so refreshing. So simple.  Knowing what is expected.  Having a daily plan. Not crashing down if something goes wrong. Facing life knowing the ups and downs will come, but understanding that is what life is about--experiences both good and bad. 

Order and Routine are not the companions of addiction.  Gentleness and respect don't show up much, either.  Some days, my mind is so scattered because of the effects addiction has had on my time at home, that I'll be driving to work hoping I locked the back door after letting the dogs out (or hoping I let the dogs back in) because I wasn't really focused on that, instead my mind was somewhere in the past, or planning a hopeless future (I find that I am not present, but have become just a presence in my life).  Addiction takes away the comfort and stability of a mentally healthy routine.  Addiction creates disorder and uncertainty.  Addiction is like a poltergeist. Objects are misplaced or disappear only to reappear someplace else.  It brings with it so much confusion and mistrust. 

Order and routine.  Structure. Boundaries. Grace. Respect. Standards. Even the words have a sense of strength when they're spoken.  A sense of clarity and power. 

And so, I've found a respite in watching Downton Abbey.  I soak in all of the gentleness;  The order and routine, and find it healing.  My mind finds healing.  Order and routine, two pieces to the puzzle of rediscovering me.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

A Time to Change

Getting my life back.  I don't know if she would appreciate me using her name, so, I'll just say that yesterday, someone with whom I've developed a respect and admiration for her enthusiasm and wisdom commented that, "only I can give myself my life back."  That is so true.  I sat and looked at the comment, thinking, knowing it's true but all I could see were the words and understand what they meant.  I couldn't see past them, to what getting my life back would be, and then I realized that, my whole adult life has been being a mother.  I was married before I graduated college and two months after that, pregnant, and after that, motherhood took off.  Her direction to me, which is exactly right, stumped me because, I"m not sure what my life is.  Yes, I'm a mother, teacher, someones daughter, sister, friend, etc. I have hobbies and dreams all of which were mingled with motherhood which meant that they never got fully developed because my first priority was the children and family. 

In articles I've read on an addict's brain that addresses the issue about stunted emotional  development, the researchers have written that  if the addict is 50, but they began their addiction at 20, then emotionally, they are still twenty because the substance abuse kind of freezes their emotions.  Once the addiction is managed, and with time, the emotions get caught up with their age, but not until they start living their lives without the drug or alcohol. 

Well, I think I'm kind of like that.  I think that's what keeps me emotionally dizzy and unclear, because I've been following the path of motherhood, doing it all, getting ready to 'let go' when, this all began and the alien nature of the whole ordeal, trying to get up to speed with what all addiction entails, I'm still stuck, emotionally, as a mother of a high schooler (when the eating disorder began), trying to get my brain around all of that, and just when that was managed and understood, the alcohol began, which, I didn't realize until this morning, threw me back, again, to those old emotions.  I have been living a life, but not living a life.

It made me realize that, yes, I have a life, but haven't really been submerged in it because of the nature of raising kids and then trying to understand the addiction, has never given me the opportunity I had before I was married, to really concentrate on me (and I'm not talking about being selfish, I'm talking about 'knowing thyself').  In the back of my mind has always been, 'them.'  If I'm reading, gardening, walking, out with friends, I've never been fully in the moment because when they were younger, is was one set of thoughts, and as they grew, a different set of concerns and routines.  It's what comes with being a parent.  If, parenting goes as planned, and normal ups and downs occur, there is a time when you begin to separate that thinking to a more loosely connected version.  One where you start revisiting who you are while appreciating who your children have become; a process that  would be allowed to happen if life went normally along.  Dealing with addiction, I'm realizing, compartmentalizes the parent's emotions and thinking, much like the addict's.  It's that separation of thinking that never happened with me.  Too enmeshed. Too confused.  Too unbelieving of all that has happened (until recently) that I haven't followed the natural path, I've been on the surreal path.  The Alice in Wonderland path. 

Time to crawl out of the rabbit hole and take a look around at the real world.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Choices, again.

It never fails. Just when I refurbish my commitment to be strong in God, to not complain or whine, or start up the, "Why me?" list, s*** happens.  I have really been forcing myself to walk a mentally cleaner path.  Not having that 'spirit of fear' has been my mantra.  I'll feel some horrible thought start to simmer, and immediately, I say to myself, "God does not give the spirit of fear, but of power, love and self-discipline."  It was helping.  Until I came to that fork in the road where I had to choose the new path or tempt the old. Of course, I tempted the old.  This is going to sound silly, but here goes.  I  don't like my ex. as a person.  I don't like anything that happened here when he was here.  I don't wish ill but truthfully, it takes a lot from me, sometimes, keeping present anger at him, submerged.  I have looked at that anger, and recognized it and 'let it go' mentally watching it float away in the breeze, but somehow, like a magical penny, those thoughts end up back in some dusty corner of my mind, and something happens that frustrates me, then I remember if he had done this or that it wouldn't be like this and pretty soon, that dusty penny becomes nice and shinny and I'm holding onto it like a rare, but dangerous, diamond.

I need a new roof, something he should have taken care of when he lived here.  The porch in the back needs a lot of repairs, another item he should have fixed, but didn't.  There are a lot of little things that have grown to bigger things that weren't changed because he wasn't planning to stay here long, even though his family lived here every day.  (grrrrr)  So, what made me choose the old path was that I looked up where he lives now.  A beautiful new home by the ocean.  The place (ocean) I've always wanted to move to, but for several reasons, taking care of my parents being the biggest, I never did.  That little picture of his house, was the nudge I needed to take one step then another and another and here I am midway down the old road. 

Then, 23 days sober here, and yesterday she bought alcohol.  We had talked.  She said she was going to work on being sober. It almost felt that this really was going to be behind her.  It felt longer than 23 days.  I reached that point were some days, I was able to forget all of those horrible, stressful feelings--twisted stomach, headache, fatigue, hopelessness--they were fading in and out.  So, it was 5:30 this morning and I had an argument with her because I couldn't keep my mouth shut, so I asked the question, "What made you do this?"  Her response, "I get bored.  You don't understand."  I made a sigh, and she latched onto that sigh and we started yelling.  That sigh, to her, represented me not believing her.  That sigh, to me, was watching all of those feelings come running back to me, and not being happy to see them, again.  Here we go, again.

Bored is an ambiguous term.  She drank at school, with a ton of work to do. She drank at work, with different people and a lot of work to do. How can you be bored with that?  Yesterday, she was bored, she said, even though we had plans for the weekend and next week. She's considering going back to graduate school. Plans are out there.  She has also said that, sadness and anxiety have also been reasons.  She has used 'things' to motivate her to stop.  If I get this or go there I will stop. No, that's not true.  I told her this morning, if it's never enough, then the things are going to fail as the motivator.  You have to change your thinking. It has to come from within you, not outside of you.  Trying to appease her, I have put my faith in 'things' to help her.  I have even convinced myself that it's not a choice, it's a genetic disorder, she's possessed, it's a kind of hypnosis where choices are not longer possible, she has low blood sugar, and once, after reading an article about this rare disorder where some people's body processes food and somehow creates alcohol in their system, I tried to talk myself into believing she was one of those rare people.  I have used all of that as a sick rationale for this madness, when this morning I was reminded, again, that it is a choice.  A hard, possibly maddening one at times, but when all of the b.s. is wiped away, what's left is a simple, frustrating choice none the less. 

Okay, so I'm standing in the middle of the road, trying to get inspired by reading blogs and reworking my thinking and talking to friends.  Last night, when I went to sleep, I hoped I wouldn't wake up.  Admitting that is embarrassing, but I wished it.  Obviously, my wishes are ignored all around.

So, I have to make a choice, because it is all about choices, right?  Turn back and do something more positive and healthy, or keep walking down this old path until I'm so entangled in the thicket of sick thinking that all I want to do is sleep.  When I put it in writing, the choice seems so clear.  Starting over, AGAIN, right after I drink this coffee. 

(I had really intended to writing about this pamphlet that I found in some papers of my mom's.  A much lighter subject, but this came up, instead.  Maybe another time).