Beware the stalking Bacchus. “They” say to stop and just listen, to not reply but to take what you can use and then leave the rest for another day. That made sense because there were too many thoughts running through your head. They say "get out of your head."
The reading was about the first step, acknowledging that you have no power over your
addiction. There were many stories told, and you remembered something a friend told you earlier that day when you told her you were going to a meeting, that when you keep your story close in your consciousness it isn't so hard to admit that first step.
To play your ‘tape’ turn to page 5.
To stay in the moment and listen to other people’s experience, strength and hope turn to page 7.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
playing the ‘tape’
Freshly sodomized, that’s how you woke up on the last day. You consider it to be your last day because you were still pretty drunk from the night before.
Mid-July, a mid-twenties pathetic. You lived in the up-and-up neighborhood, before the Target moved in, before the writing on the wall in a dive bar explained “if you took a cab here, you don’t belong.” You moved there because you love Salvadorian food. You moved there hastily, when you were engaged to be married at 21 years old. The building was beautiful and well maintained. You didn’t have the energy to figure out how to wash the filters on the air conditioners so you lived with the balcony doors open to get a cross breeze, which inevitably led to having to sleep with your sheets over your head so the mosquitoes could not feast on your inert body. You lived in squalor, but in a really large apartment for the rent you were paying. No t.v., you thought and still to some extent still think that they are tacky. Instead, your apartment was filled with books, most of which you haven’t read, but they make you seem smart and educated, a conceited façade. The kitty litter box lived in the kitchen and was rarely changed. The whole kitchen area could be closed off by double doors so that the wreckage and science experiments weren’t readily visible. Empty beer bottles littered your bathroom. Most of the furniture you inherited from your father, the blue-blood Rye New York side of the family. You’re descended from Rob Roy and Thomas Nast, so stubbornness and vanity and hubris run in your veins, as well as the disease of addiction. Your therapist told you that you should go get help since you were 16.
It was nearly a decade later and your ass-hole hurt. Your sheets were not on your bed, but hanging over the doorway of the balcony so that the light wouldn’t shine through. Your wrists were beginning to bruise from the handcuffs. And you couldn’t find the key.
Ink-neck, so labeled for the tattoos on his neck, wouldn’t let you go to the police station to have them removed. You were tired and humiliated. He thought so lowly of you, he had told you so the night before. He couldn’t believe that you couldn’t remember how many guys from your JCC dodgeball team you dropped on. You think he even called you a slut; although it didn’t keep him from asking you to go drinking with him. Eight hours later he was asking if you had a key to the set of handcuffs that were in the bowl next to the front door. Drunk, you said, “Yes.”
You put on a tube top. Didn’t shower. Tried to hide your restrained hands in a black over the shoulder bag while you and Ink-neck boarded the metro to his house and car, which had a set of keys stuck into the rim of the driver's side door and the ceiling foam. You drove to Wendy’s with him and he blew the tire of his car and so both of you sat at a gas station for an hour or so. You laughed at him. You missed your mother’s birthday party. He wouldn’t drive you home so you went back to your apartment on the metro.
You haven’t spoken to him since. You see him around town every once in a while, and you duck, you hide.
If this is enough to keep you from drinking just for today, turn to page 3.
If you want to drown this memory, turn to page 8.
Mid-July, a mid-twenties pathetic. You lived in the up-and-up neighborhood, before the Target moved in, before the writing on the wall in a dive bar explained “if you took a cab here, you don’t belong.” You moved there because you love Salvadorian food. You moved there hastily, when you were engaged to be married at 21 years old. The building was beautiful and well maintained. You didn’t have the energy to figure out how to wash the filters on the air conditioners so you lived with the balcony doors open to get a cross breeze, which inevitably led to having to sleep with your sheets over your head so the mosquitoes could not feast on your inert body. You lived in squalor, but in a really large apartment for the rent you were paying. No t.v., you thought and still to some extent still think that they are tacky. Instead, your apartment was filled with books, most of which you haven’t read, but they make you seem smart and educated, a conceited façade. The kitty litter box lived in the kitchen and was rarely changed. The whole kitchen area could be closed off by double doors so that the wreckage and science experiments weren’t readily visible. Empty beer bottles littered your bathroom. Most of the furniture you inherited from your father, the blue-blood Rye New York side of the family. You’re descended from Rob Roy and Thomas Nast, so stubbornness and vanity and hubris run in your veins, as well as the disease of addiction. Your therapist told you that you should go get help since you were 16.
It was nearly a decade later and your ass-hole hurt. Your sheets were not on your bed, but hanging over the doorway of the balcony so that the light wouldn’t shine through. Your wrists were beginning to bruise from the handcuffs. And you couldn’t find the key.
Ink-neck, so labeled for the tattoos on his neck, wouldn’t let you go to the police station to have them removed. You were tired and humiliated. He thought so lowly of you, he had told you so the night before. He couldn’t believe that you couldn’t remember how many guys from your JCC dodgeball team you dropped on. You think he even called you a slut; although it didn’t keep him from asking you to go drinking with him. Eight hours later he was asking if you had a key to the set of handcuffs that were in the bowl next to the front door. Drunk, you said, “Yes.”
You put on a tube top. Didn’t shower. Tried to hide your restrained hands in a black over the shoulder bag while you and Ink-neck boarded the metro to his house and car, which had a set of keys stuck into the rim of the driver's side door and the ceiling foam. You drove to Wendy’s with him and he blew the tire of his car and so both of you sat at a gas station for an hour or so. You laughed at him. You missed your mother’s birthday party. He wouldn’t drive you home so you went back to your apartment on the metro.
You haven’t spoken to him since. You see him around town every once in a while, and you duck, you hide.
If this is enough to keep you from drinking just for today, turn to page 3.
If you want to drown this memory, turn to page 8.
staying in the moment
It was a beginners meeting, most of the people who spoke were talking about powerlessness.
You were trying to relate to the people who were sharing, you remember when you quit using illegal drugs. That memory is still fresh. It isn't hard for you to stay away from illegal drugs; you disdained users. You had come to realize how retarded you were, and how retarded they were, not the colloquial retarded, but seriously stunted, not growing. It was difficult to assume that same perspective on using legal drugs, you were still drinking alcohol and taking pills that had been prescribed (granted, you weren’t taking them as prescribed, but that was simply a bagatelle).
If you want to continue lying to yourself, turn to page 8.
Turn to page 10 if you’ve hurt enough and are willing to start taking suggestions.
You were trying to relate to the people who were sharing, you remember when you quit using illegal drugs. That memory is still fresh. It isn't hard for you to stay away from illegal drugs; you disdained users. You had come to realize how retarded you were, and how retarded they were, not the colloquial retarded, but seriously stunted, not growing. It was difficult to assume that same perspective on using legal drugs, you were still drinking alcohol and taking pills that had been prescribed (granted, you weren’t taking them as prescribed, but that was simply a bagatelle).
If you want to continue lying to yourself, turn to page 8.
Turn to page 10 if you’ve hurt enough and are willing to start taking suggestions.
continuing the lie
You hadn't reached rock bottom, you were trying to be wise, you were trying to out-smart yourself. You were lying to yourself daily that you could do it. You knew you couldn't, because you didn't.
Immediately after the meeting you went out and had three delicious dirty martinis on the rocks, lots of olives.
It was convenient that you had Ink-neck to drink with, that he wanted you to drink with him so that he'd have a better time. You thought that if you could catch him early enough that sex would be enough, that that would be a good enough time. basta, enough. You started out with a diet coke, and thought, “If I have one martini I can make it home by 12 and be in bed on time and make it to work on time.”
The main reason for the sobriety hunt was because you were tired. In the preceding three weeks you had found that both ends were exhausting. Drinking was exhausting and so was not drinking. You stayed up until 3am drawing in a manic state of anxiety on many nights during that white-knuckle period.
You stopped that night at 1:30 and were in bed by 1:45am. You made it into work on time the next day. It was luck and you knew it.
You didn't know about that day, the beginning of what you call your bottom. You were supposed to go to a going away party with your dodge ball guys but doubted that you could sit in a fully stocked limo without taking your clothes off. It felt like the Bacchus was stalking you. It was like going up against Vizzini, the Sicilian, when death is on the line.
And then came the surrender. The details of those days … don’t matter. Not really. Everyone has gotten drunk, right? taken too many pills? Blacked out? Been handcuffed with a keyless pair? Missed their mother’s birthday dinner because the key had to be found? Been sodomized? Everyone has, right? It’s normal, right?
If you need another example of your unmanageable life, turn to any of the following pages: page 21, page 23, page 26, page 28.
Immediately after the meeting you went out and had three delicious dirty martinis on the rocks, lots of olives.
It was convenient that you had Ink-neck to drink with, that he wanted you to drink with him so that he'd have a better time. You thought that if you could catch him early enough that sex would be enough, that that would be a good enough time. basta, enough. You started out with a diet coke, and thought, “If I have one martini I can make it home by 12 and be in bed on time and make it to work on time.”
The main reason for the sobriety hunt was because you were tired. In the preceding three weeks you had found that both ends were exhausting. Drinking was exhausting and so was not drinking. You stayed up until 3am drawing in a manic state of anxiety on many nights during that white-knuckle period.
You stopped that night at 1:30 and were in bed by 1:45am. You made it into work on time the next day. It was luck and you knew it.
You didn't know about that day, the beginning of what you call your bottom. You were supposed to go to a going away party with your dodge ball guys but doubted that you could sit in a fully stocked limo without taking your clothes off. It felt like the Bacchus was stalking you. It was like going up against Vizzini, the Sicilian, when death is on the line.
And then came the surrender. The details of those days … don’t matter. Not really. Everyone has gotten drunk, right? taken too many pills? Blacked out? Been handcuffed with a keyless pair? Missed their mother’s birthday dinner because the key had to be found? Been sodomized? Everyone has, right? It’s normal, right?
If you need another example of your unmanageable life, turn to any of the following pages: page 21, page 23, page 26, page 28.
willing to surrender
Life is about choices now, at every activity’s juxtaposition. Today you chose to go to your first meeting of a twelve-step program. You walked up the stairs after passing through a non-descript doorway, pushing the buttons to be buzzed into the club. You wore your pearl earrings so you’d have something to fiddle with as you input new information, scared-stiff. You sit down in a stackable chair with it’s brown pleather seat cushion. People are hugging, smiling, as your heart-beat races and you stare at the warm diet coke in your hands hoping they ignore you. The lights are dim in the front room of was probably once a house, it’s huge floor to ceiling windows looking out at the busy street in DC, cars and buses crawling into the merge. The club smells like drip coffee and the street, the windows are open and warm July wafts in.
It was dogmatic like church: reading the nicene creed, prayers of the people, collection, reading of the gospel, and closing just like at church. The thought of a meeting terrified you, so many thoughts in your head about why you were going, what you wanted from it, who you wanted to be.
Sitting down, you pulled off one of your earrings. Your mother always told you to bring pearls when you might be nervous, the weight and the warmth would comfort you. The earring worked for about the first twenty minutes, until you thought you had to introduce yourself. The guy who was sitting in the chair at the front of the room looked straight at you and asked if anyone wanted to introduce themselves by first name only. You faltered. You were there with 18 days, there was a guy with three days. Next to you sat a guy with well-manicured hands and there were two people sitting behind you who kept giggling through introductions, which was distracting.
After the meeting, lots of people were standing around outside the club, laughing, smoking, talking. A young woman approached you and handed you a slip of paper. She explained, “Call me. You won’t know why you’re calling me. You won’t know what to talk about, but call me.”
To take a suggestion and call the woman, do your laundry when you get home turn to page 11.
To reject assistance turn to page 5.
It was dogmatic like church: reading the nicene creed, prayers of the people, collection, reading of the gospel, and closing just like at church. The thought of a meeting terrified you, so many thoughts in your head about why you were going, what you wanted from it, who you wanted to be.
Sitting down, you pulled off one of your earrings. Your mother always told you to bring pearls when you might be nervous, the weight and the warmth would comfort you. The earring worked for about the first twenty minutes, until you thought you had to introduce yourself. The guy who was sitting in the chair at the front of the room looked straight at you and asked if anyone wanted to introduce themselves by first name only. You faltered. You were there with 18 days, there was a guy with three days. Next to you sat a guy with well-manicured hands and there were two people sitting behind you who kept giggling through introductions, which was distracting.
After the meeting, lots of people were standing around outside the club, laughing, smoking, talking. A young woman approached you and handed you a slip of paper. She explained, “Call me. You won’t know why you’re calling me. You won’t know what to talk about, but call me.”
To take a suggestion and call the woman, do your laundry when you get home turn to page 11.
To reject assistance turn to page 5.
taking suggestions
This is what you wrote in your journal on your way to work:
“I rejected assistance. I rejected human compassion for alcohol.
Thursday, all I had to do was stay in my apartment, do laundry. Call the random girl. Drink my frappucino. Listen to the unspoken truth in Cathy’s eyes when I lifted that drink to my lips.
Friday, all I had to do was accept Lamont’s offer to go to the program at the church or stay home – do more laundry, work on the devil’s triangle idea for the restaurant. Paint something for my mother’s birthday.
Saturday, I just had to stay put in Claire’s apartment. Stay on the phone with Luxx. Watch Kill Bill vol 1 & 2 with Claire. Watch the rain & thunder. Meet new people at the apartment across the hall. Walk home alone. Contemplate suicide. Anything but.
Sunday, I had to wake up on time. Make it to church. Tell my mother ‘happy birthday.’
Instead I’m crying on the metro. Supposed to train someone how to work in a mailroom. Ex- convict in recovery.”
After that, you did what was suggested. You got a sponsor, Izzi. You went to 90 meetings in 90 days. You worked the steps and at the suggestion of your therapist, Wendy, stayed away from sugary things for a while. The most important suggestion you took though, was to stay away from relationships. Your motivations were so convoluted that there was no sense in even pretending like you were relationship material. That’s when you started to recover.
Put one foot in front of the other, turn to page 9.
“I rejected assistance. I rejected human compassion for alcohol.
Thursday, all I had to do was stay in my apartment, do laundry. Call the random girl. Drink my frappucino. Listen to the unspoken truth in Cathy’s eyes when I lifted that drink to my lips.
Friday, all I had to do was accept Lamont’s offer to go to the program at the church or stay home – do more laundry, work on the devil’s triangle idea for the restaurant. Paint something for my mother’s birthday.
Saturday, I just had to stay put in Claire’s apartment. Stay on the phone with Luxx. Watch Kill Bill vol 1 & 2 with Claire. Watch the rain & thunder. Meet new people at the apartment across the hall. Walk home alone. Contemplate suicide. Anything but.
Sunday, I had to wake up on time. Make it to church. Tell my mother ‘happy birthday.’
Instead I’m crying on the metro. Supposed to train someone how to work in a mailroom. Ex- convict in recovery.”
After that, you did what was suggested. You got a sponsor, Izzi. You went to 90 meetings in 90 days. You worked the steps and at the suggestion of your therapist, Wendy, stayed away from sugary things for a while. The most important suggestion you took though, was to stay away from relationships. Your motivations were so convoluted that there was no sense in even pretending like you were relationship material. That’s when you started to recover.
Put one foot in front of the other, turn to page 9.
beginning recovery
Day 2. The words, "that's not my responsibility" make you want to fall down stairs and crack you forehead on the door-jam at the bottom. They make you raise your voice, flail your arms, cross your eyes and walk very quickly away from people. You especially hate these words at 8:10 in the morning, even after you've had the necessary java and pastry; they still make the devil inside un-exorcizable (nope not a word, but it's fun to say). When these words are said in front of your members it is beyond simile.
Guess what happened today? and you can't do a thing about it, because you are too hot over it. You’re afraid you will tell your coworker to fuck herself and that it's because of her that this job sucks ass some days, because she has a piss-poor attitude about teamwork and what it means to work in a clubhouse and that you wish she'd go back to the shelter she came crawled out of in New York.
To realize that this reaction would set a bad example, and that it isn't about you, it's about the members turn to page 12.
To lose your shit over something you can’t control, turn to page 17.
Guess what happened today? and you can't do a thing about it, because you are too hot over it. You’re afraid you will tell your coworker to fuck herself and that it's because of her that this job sucks ass some days, because she has a piss-poor attitude about teamwork and what it means to work in a clubhouse and that you wish she'd go back to the shelter she came crawled out of in New York.
To realize that this reaction would set a bad example, and that it isn't about you, it's about the members turn to page 12.
To lose your shit over something you can’t control, turn to page 17.
deep breath
deep breath and .... you’re done.
Please continue in your recovery from wherever you left off.
Please continue in your recovery from wherever you left off.
dirty old men at work
Day 7. …when they smack their gums together and the spittle dribbles out a little around the corners when they smile and make cooing noises about your legs, you love them. It makes you giggle and sit a little sexier so the cellulite and unshaven-ness don't show. Honestly, you love the dirty men at your job, they make you laugh and smile like no other man can make you do.
You are a work in progress, please continue going to meetings, calling your sponsor, and working the steps. Turn to page 14.
You are a work in progress, please continue going to meetings, calling your sponsor, and working the steps. Turn to page 14.
they come in threes
It’s day 21. You got to work today and learned that there was a death in the club family. Someone committed suicide. Your mom’s aunt, Annie Gop, died on Thursday and now you’re wondering who is going to be next. Someone suggested that Peter Jennings was the last part of the triumvirate, but you don't buy it. You were out for three days for the funeral and so have been spending the morning going through bullshit emails, staying with the members, not checking out, not taking lunch so you can leave early.
You kept on thinking that you needed some time away from Club to grieve but being back,
staying engaged in your work is an amazing boost. Maybe you should have stayed. You were still late for work this morning, but miracles only happen overnight in Atlantic City...
You are a work in progress. Please continue going to meetings, calling your sponsor, working on your steps, staying on the man-ban. If you would like to tell your unicorn that you can’t continue the relationship anymore, turn to page 19, otherwise please continue to page 15.
You kept on thinking that you needed some time away from Club to grieve but being back,
staying engaged in your work is an amazing boost. Maybe you should have stayed. You were still late for work this morning, but miracles only happen overnight in Atlantic City...
You are a work in progress. Please continue going to meetings, calling your sponsor, working on your steps, staying on the man-ban. If you would like to tell your unicorn that you can’t continue the relationship anymore, turn to page 19, otherwise please continue to page 15.
your sparkle
You wore your diamonds to work today. They remind you of your sparkle... when you were 17, your mother sent you to get your graduation portrait done by this guy who took photos of you and your mom when you were five. The guy Brenniman, used to be a Bobby in London, came to the states and has an amazing business (has done portraits of Prince Charles, Arnold Schwarzkopf, et cetera, your mom found him before he got famous, and you remember the railroad house he had in Old Town. It was so dark and straight out of a BBC film). You were having a shit-time around when your mom sent you to get your photo done, and you kept giving the bobby shit, and not really smiling. Finally, he says, "I want to see your sparkle! Think of your boyfriend over there saying something ridiculous."
Of course, at the time you were dating a 23 year old, just out of West Virginia running from a warrant, huge tattoo of a dragon on his head, working as a chimney sweep. You met him through your bartender best friend, Silvia, she was his sister. Needless to say, he wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box, but a lovely man who just wanted someone barefoot and prego with a big heart. He promptly met that woman after you broke up.
"Show me your sparkle!"
You gave that man the biggest smile.
For the chance of the third death being the mean being inside of you: continue feeling (page 16 or 17), dealing (page 12, 30, or 44), and healing.
Of course, at the time you were dating a 23 year old, just out of West Virginia running from a warrant, huge tattoo of a dragon on his head, working as a chimney sweep. You met him through your bartender best friend, Silvia, she was his sister. Needless to say, he wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box, but a lovely man who just wanted someone barefoot and prego with a big heart. He promptly met that woman after you broke up.
"Show me your sparkle!"
You gave that man the biggest smile.
For the chance of the third death being the mean being inside of you: continue feeling (page 16 or 17), dealing (page 12, 30, or 44), and healing.
reaching for your revolver
In your journal on Day 25 you wrote:
“i'm trying so hard to learn how to stay here, to not check-out, get my shit done. I did, in the end do what i needed to. but i shot myself in the foot early on, and so was crippled all day long. and just like when i had knee surgery, wanted people to open doors for me, drive me places, and be extremely accommodating. i wasn't thinking of others, the more i do, the less hobbled my gait will be.
I want to be a savant. I want to be able to pick up any tool and be proficient with it, to not have to learn how to use it, but to have some inherent, clairvoyant knowledge of its depths and breadth. But tomorrow I'm going to pick up the same pen and have to learn how to write with my left hand like I tried to today, because my right - while practiced - has a mind of it's own that I can't control. My right hand is untempered, manic, and retards me, it holds the revolver. Tomorrow I won't pick it up.”
You’re still in the beginning of recovery, sorry. You can either continue on to pain that you don’t understand (page 17) or return to pain you do understand (page 5).
“i'm trying so hard to learn how to stay here, to not check-out, get my shit done. I did, in the end do what i needed to. but i shot myself in the foot early on, and so was crippled all day long. and just like when i had knee surgery, wanted people to open doors for me, drive me places, and be extremely accommodating. i wasn't thinking of others, the more i do, the less hobbled my gait will be.
I want to be a savant. I want to be able to pick up any tool and be proficient with it, to not have to learn how to use it, but to have some inherent, clairvoyant knowledge of its depths and breadth. But tomorrow I'm going to pick up the same pen and have to learn how to write with my left hand like I tried to today, because my right - while practiced - has a mind of it's own that I can't control. My right hand is untempered, manic, and retards me, it holds the revolver. Tomorrow I won't pick it up.”
You’re still in the beginning of recovery, sorry. You can either continue on to pain that you don’t understand (page 17) or return to pain you do understand (page 5).
dropping your basket
Another journal entry, Day 28:
“Scribbling furiously because i needed to get something out, but i still feel it in me. i don't feel stapled to the ground, i feel like exploding.
‘You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star’ nietzsche
restless and just wanting to quit, to switch positions, to leave, serious depression and wanting to escape. the whole, i can't do it, let go let god. i can’t hold onto that. i feel like i need to go find a safe place and curl up and die. i don’t know why. i want it to go away, someone FIX me. something fix me. i give up. and yet, there's nothing, no immediate fix. i breathe deep, i yogi, i pay attention to what? that fourth dimension. and still have enough energy, enough self- knowledge, to end this. what am i going to do tomorrow, that's what i would ask one of the people that i am supposed to help. I don’t know what i'm doing tomorrow, going to a picnic, supposed to see the guy that i gave my virginity to, go to a meeting, call izzi, pray motherfucker."
To do the things you’re supposed to do, turn to page 18.
To quit quitting, turn to page 8.
“Scribbling furiously because i needed to get something out, but i still feel it in me. i don't feel stapled to the ground, i feel like exploding.
‘You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star’ nietzsche
restless and just wanting to quit, to switch positions, to leave, serious depression and wanting to escape. the whole, i can't do it, let go let god. i can’t hold onto that. i feel like i need to go find a safe place and curl up and die. i don’t know why. i want it to go away, someone FIX me. something fix me. i give up. and yet, there's nothing, no immediate fix. i breathe deep, i yogi, i pay attention to what? that fourth dimension. and still have enough energy, enough self- knowledge, to end this. what am i going to do tomorrow, that's what i would ask one of the people that i am supposed to help. I don’t know what i'm doing tomorrow, going to a picnic, supposed to see the guy that i gave my virginity to, go to a meeting, call izzi, pray motherfucker."
To do the things you’re supposed to do, turn to page 18.
To quit quitting, turn to page 8.
deep inside
somewhere deep. thirty days of digging. the different little sparkles of chaos that emerge into an infinite space of possibilities. dive and pull, kick and exhale into some soft night balm for the soul.
right now.
Please continue to page 19.
right now.
Please continue to page 19.
diet coke & bars
Day 58. At the bar you regular with Philip, your unicorn. Diet coke in front of you and you explain to him the man-ban suggestion. It’s been suggested to you that you not engage in relations with him or any other guy for that matter. Someone gave you the green-light to be completely self-centered and just worry about figuring out what you’re made of.
He said that he’s involved with someone else, but not interested in a relationship with either of you. And it’s not crippling you. He says he loves you and trusts you. He says he’s sticking around for another year. Maybe you’ll be okay and in the right place in a year to be together. Can’t expect it though.
Guileless in your dreams. He was still living with the other girl. Then, it was fine to just talk to him. You weren’t scared of dreaming anymore.
To dream about Philip, turn to page 20.
To relive the past and remind yourself why you need the man-ban turn to page 21 or page 23.
He said that he’s involved with someone else, but not interested in a relationship with either of you. And it’s not crippling you. He says he loves you and trusts you. He says he’s sticking around for another year. Maybe you’ll be okay and in the right place in a year to be together. Can’t expect it though.
Guileless in your dreams. He was still living with the other girl. Then, it was fine to just talk to him. You weren’t scared of dreaming anymore.
To dream about Philip, turn to page 20.
To relive the past and remind yourself why you need the man-ban turn to page 21 or page 23.
dreams
Written on Day 1094.
Waking up wrapped in soft sheets. It’s summer, the ceiling fan whirls, and the bed smells like the two of you. His arm still falls over your waist and you play footsie with each other for a minute. He nuzzles your neck and then slips out of bed. He knows it takes you a minute to break into the morning, so you turn and move onto his pillow and spread-out, taking up the whole bed now. He pads down the stairs of the three story town house, in whichever city you’re living. You can hear the crunch of the coffee grinder, the toilet flush, the squeak of old pipes turning on for him to take a shower. He doesn’t drink coffee, he makes it just for you.
Finally, you get out of bed and you go get the paper. When he comes out of the shower and downstairs, you have situated yourself sitting like a yogi at the breakfast table reading the paper. When it’s just you and your unicorn, you walk around in pannies and an old t-shirt; this morning you stole the one that says “hang the dj.”
“What would you like for breakfast? I think there’s some spinach and mozzarella,” you say. With his toothbrush in his mouth, he continues brushing and nods his head. There are peonies from your backyard cut and in a clear vase on the table. You have a mismatch of plates and silverware, hand-blown Venetian glass juice cups that you picked up in college on your summer abroad. You start making breakfast with the heavy iron skillet, because the eggs taste better when they’ve been scrambled in it. Off-center, above the breakfast table, you hung a mobile you made when you were living in Washington, DC. A bicycle wheel without the tire and little bits of glass and shells and wooden toys, a hodge-podge of cheap jewelry hang from the spokes. It’s supposed to turn, but never does.
Out of the kitchen and into the office in the back which used to be a closed in porch which was converted into an area where you could watch the kids playing in the back and still futz around on the computer; you tell him that breakfast is served.
He takes the world news and you take the federal pages and eat in the wonderful silence of mid-morning. The kids are at your mom’s house for the weekend, you’ll have two days all to yourselves and the house will remain spotless.
Maybe you’ll go to the park, maybe you’ll go to the new museum exhibit downtown. Maybe you’ll find things to do around the house and stay inside all day long. Maybe he has plans with the guys, you know you have to get to my meeting tonight.
To return to earth, turn to page 41.
To stay safe inside insanity turn to 21.
Waking up wrapped in soft sheets. It’s summer, the ceiling fan whirls, and the bed smells like the two of you. His arm still falls over your waist and you play footsie with each other for a minute. He nuzzles your neck and then slips out of bed. He knows it takes you a minute to break into the morning, so you turn and move onto his pillow and spread-out, taking up the whole bed now. He pads down the stairs of the three story town house, in whichever city you’re living. You can hear the crunch of the coffee grinder, the toilet flush, the squeak of old pipes turning on for him to take a shower. He doesn’t drink coffee, he makes it just for you.
Finally, you get out of bed and you go get the paper. When he comes out of the shower and downstairs, you have situated yourself sitting like a yogi at the breakfast table reading the paper. When it’s just you and your unicorn, you walk around in pannies and an old t-shirt; this morning you stole the one that says “hang the dj.”
“What would you like for breakfast? I think there’s some spinach and mozzarella,” you say. With his toothbrush in his mouth, he continues brushing and nods his head. There are peonies from your backyard cut and in a clear vase on the table. You have a mismatch of plates and silverware, hand-blown Venetian glass juice cups that you picked up in college on your summer abroad. You start making breakfast with the heavy iron skillet, because the eggs taste better when they’ve been scrambled in it. Off-center, above the breakfast table, you hung a mobile you made when you were living in Washington, DC. A bicycle wheel without the tire and little bits of glass and shells and wooden toys, a hodge-podge of cheap jewelry hang from the spokes. It’s supposed to turn, but never does.
Out of the kitchen and into the office in the back which used to be a closed in porch which was converted into an area where you could watch the kids playing in the back and still futz around on the computer; you tell him that breakfast is served.
He takes the world news and you take the federal pages and eat in the wonderful silence of mid-morning. The kids are at your mom’s house for the weekend, you’ll have two days all to yourselves and the house will remain spotless.
Maybe you’ll go to the park, maybe you’ll go to the new museum exhibit downtown. Maybe you’ll find things to do around the house and stay inside all day long. Maybe he has plans with the guys, you know you have to get to my meeting tonight.
To return to earth, turn to page 41.
To stay safe inside insanity turn to 21.
imaginationship
The video store actually turns into Kevin Bacon. Through it, one can find six degrees of separation to anyone in the city. This includes you and your unicorn, Philip. Remembering the insanity that follows this first encounter makes you chuckle internally. It has an 8 millimeter 1960s snuff film quality, the whole period of intoxicated madness is like a dime pulp fiction. With radiohead playing on your internal record player with the scratches and the warm analog sound, imagine the guy from High Fidelity. One that postures, is not in any way stable, but makes you smile.
Philip’s on his way to Paris with his girlfriend. He thinks you have a thing for him then, he does the head nod. He’s the proto-hipster. Such cool hauteur. A couple of weeks later he drops into a sex-toy party held at your girlfriend’s house. When you
showed up at that party you were sober. You brought two bottles of cheap pinot grigio, and were pressured into creating a myspace account. Bored in your shirt, you borrowed Daphne’s Marc Jacobs kelly green and baby blue shirt, two sizes too small. “Oh well it makes my tits look huge.” A bottle later…
The man behind the counter asked you if you were too intoxicated to purchase what you put on the counter. You can’t remember what it was anymore. “Of course, I’m not intoxicated!”
Later, tanked, you walked out of the apartment with two of Daphne’s guests. blonde
Abercrombie boys. Walking up the street towards the bar you said, “Watch this.” And then you punched a girl in the shoulder. You didn’t know her. She and her friend were just some plastic girls. They turned around, “What the fuck?” All you said was “it’s cool.” Turned around and kept walking.
Philip and his buddy from the video store were walking behind you. He told you later he wanted to make sure you were safe. Staggering up the street, ankles twisting in the high heels. Arm and arm with Abercrombie boy.
Later in the year, in an “open-relationship” period you and Philip met a couple times for drinks. You can remember wet kisses, labored breathing, and you remember his red shirt. Your living room, lacking a TV, but with an abundance of books. You can remember flirting, the drunk flirting, one eye squinting, crooked smile. Sitting on top of your couch, while he was laid out, and falling, slouching, fading into intimacy. He left an hour later, not that you remember.
Your grandfather used to say, “hold onto your diaper” when you were about to drive down a steep hill. This relationship is a “hold onto your diaper” relationship.
to head out to buy more… please continue to just stay buzzed… blast off into the parallel dimension, page 25.
Please continue to page 23.
Philip’s on his way to Paris with his girlfriend. He thinks you have a thing for him then, he does the head nod. He’s the proto-hipster. Such cool hauteur. A couple of weeks later he drops into a sex-toy party held at your girlfriend’s house. When you
showed up at that party you were sober. You brought two bottles of cheap pinot grigio, and were pressured into creating a myspace account. Bored in your shirt, you borrowed Daphne’s Marc Jacobs kelly green and baby blue shirt, two sizes too small. “Oh well it makes my tits look huge.” A bottle later…
The man behind the counter asked you if you were too intoxicated to purchase what you put on the counter. You can’t remember what it was anymore. “Of course, I’m not intoxicated!”
Later, tanked, you walked out of the apartment with two of Daphne’s guests. blonde
Abercrombie boys. Walking up the street towards the bar you said, “Watch this.” And then you punched a girl in the shoulder. You didn’t know her. She and her friend were just some plastic girls. They turned around, “What the fuck?” All you said was “it’s cool.” Turned around and kept walking.
Philip and his buddy from the video store were walking behind you. He told you later he wanted to make sure you were safe. Staggering up the street, ankles twisting in the high heels. Arm and arm with Abercrombie boy.
Later in the year, in an “open-relationship” period you and Philip met a couple times for drinks. You can remember wet kisses, labored breathing, and you remember his red shirt. Your living room, lacking a TV, but with an abundance of books. You can remember flirting, the drunk flirting, one eye squinting, crooked smile. Sitting on top of your couch, while he was laid out, and falling, slouching, fading into intimacy. He left an hour later, not that you remember.
Your grandfather used to say, “hold onto your diaper” when you were about to drive down a steep hill. This relationship is a “hold onto your diaper” relationship.
to head out to buy more… please continue to just stay buzzed… blast off into the parallel dimension, page 25.
Please continue to page 23.
phone throwing
When you play this movie in your head, the contrast is off. Adjust the bunny ears. Static. Those horizontal interference lines moving down the screen to settle to the off contrast but that’s the best you’ll ever get. Standing on the street corner. Slightly drizzling. 2 AM. Four-inch shiny black calf boots. Jeans. The lucky fuck me shirt. Dangling purse. Under the noire streetlamp, holding and wasted steadying with my fingertips. One foot inclines outward, relieving the weight on that leg. Across the street from his apartment. A three story dilapidated flaky quintessential city
row house. Hazy heavy air. The light on the third floor is on. It’s the front apartment. Too drunk to realize that he lives in the back apartment, lights off. You call his home number. The sleepy, mumbled, fake, “hello?” your breathy response, “hello” and then “click.” And he turned off the ringer.
An innumerable count of calls, repeatedly. Confusing, pursed lips, wrinkled forehead. Turns to anger. The phone flies, breaks, but is still functional. You called Philip so many more times. You walk two miles in the 4-inch heels, ruined and you couldn’t figure out why your calves hurt so much in the morning. At home, sitting on the floor legs akimbo, sobbing. So hurt, rejected, sad, lonely. An old coworker called you the next morning to ask why you called her repeatedly the night before.
That was the first time you decided to never talk to him again. If you stick to this decision please turn to page 25 otherwise please continue.
… and then a month later, you were talking to him again.
After his birthday you didn’t hear from him for two weeks. You kept calling. He said he was depressed. He’s a liar though. Probably out of the “open relationship.”
Trying to learn with your therapist: how to maintain self-esteem. How to live. Pretty silly when a month ago you were sunbathing on the roof with a liter of vodka and redbull, reading. Stumbled downstairs. Blacked out when you were supposed to go dancing with Luxx, your svelte sex-dripping-down-the-hallway friend. Twisted your ankle trying to put on platform shoes. Laughing hysterically.
You have a date at Lucky Bar. You are stood up. Two weeks later, You’re walking home from work, waiting for the light to change, reading a book while commuting. He’s standing across the street. You hold the book up so your face is partially covered. He greets you enthusiastically and asks why you haven’t called. Gives you a genuine hug. Asks why you haven’t called?
That was the first time you decided to never talk to him again. If you stick to this decision please turn to page 25 otherwise please continue.
To establish healthy boundaries and demonstrate the NON-codependent behavior, smack him silly. This sets the stage for an effective relationship, please turn to page 20.
For the codependent response, please continue.
You remind him he stood you up and you make plans for the following week, these were
discarded as well. You still have not learned that plans with Philip are soft until they are hard. You were planning on going to New York City for a mini-vacation the week after Christmas with him. He didn’t call. He didn’t write you an email, nothing. That was the second time you decided to never talk to him again.
But you found out later, or at least were told later, that his mom sent herself into the hospital because she wanted him to pay attention to her. Apparently, it worked.
You really didn’t talk to him for a while after that botched trip to New York. But he called again three months later. To actually put a good college try into not speaking to him continue…
His best friend died, overdosed. Sitting shiva, he called you, wasted, crying. Apologized for treating you so horribly. Midnight on the Long Island sound, it was chilly on the porch smoking a cigarette. You didn’t recognize the phone number on the caller ID. It was the third time you erased his phone number from your phone. He said he really wanted to be friends. He was sitting on a stoop in the back of the house in Baltimore. With reservations, you said it was okay. Your mind was screaming, “No it’s not! How are you going to tell your friends that you’re friends with him again. This is insanity. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
This time you told yourself you had more realistic expectations. That this friendship would go on for a bit and then he would try to deepen the relationship. You were safe as long as you didn’t fuck him. How does one not have sex with the guy that listens and is so in tune that repeatedly you cum together? Insane. Nothing temporary about it.
You were painting a few months after Philip’s friend died, standing on a ladder in the new restaurant. Covering up a tacky paint job with plain red. Speckled red on your face, he came in, sat on a bench and told you how much he loved you. He had come back from Berlin. Wanted to try monogamy. He was drunk, and you were insane.
In the sense that you were repeating past mistakes, it was insanity.
To break this pattern of insanity, go to a second step meeting (page 42), otherwise please read this section repeatedly until it hurts enough, and then go to the second step meeting.
row house. Hazy heavy air. The light on the third floor is on. It’s the front apartment. Too drunk to realize that he lives in the back apartment, lights off. You call his home number. The sleepy, mumbled, fake, “hello?” your breathy response, “hello” and then “click.” And he turned off the ringer.
An innumerable count of calls, repeatedly. Confusing, pursed lips, wrinkled forehead. Turns to anger. The phone flies, breaks, but is still functional. You called Philip so many more times. You walk two miles in the 4-inch heels, ruined and you couldn’t figure out why your calves hurt so much in the morning. At home, sitting on the floor legs akimbo, sobbing. So hurt, rejected, sad, lonely. An old coworker called you the next morning to ask why you called her repeatedly the night before.
That was the first time you decided to never talk to him again. If you stick to this decision please turn to page 25 otherwise please continue.
… and then a month later, you were talking to him again.
After his birthday you didn’t hear from him for two weeks. You kept calling. He said he was depressed. He’s a liar though. Probably out of the “open relationship.”
Trying to learn with your therapist: how to maintain self-esteem. How to live. Pretty silly when a month ago you were sunbathing on the roof with a liter of vodka and redbull, reading. Stumbled downstairs. Blacked out when you were supposed to go dancing with Luxx, your svelte sex-dripping-down-the-hallway friend. Twisted your ankle trying to put on platform shoes. Laughing hysterically.
You have a date at Lucky Bar. You are stood up. Two weeks later, You’re walking home from work, waiting for the light to change, reading a book while commuting. He’s standing across the street. You hold the book up so your face is partially covered. He greets you enthusiastically and asks why you haven’t called. Gives you a genuine hug. Asks why you haven’t called?
That was the first time you decided to never talk to him again. If you stick to this decision please turn to page 25 otherwise please continue.
To establish healthy boundaries and demonstrate the NON-codependent behavior, smack him silly. This sets the stage for an effective relationship, please turn to page 20.
For the codependent response, please continue.
You remind him he stood you up and you make plans for the following week, these were
discarded as well. You still have not learned that plans with Philip are soft until they are hard. You were planning on going to New York City for a mini-vacation the week after Christmas with him. He didn’t call. He didn’t write you an email, nothing. That was the second time you decided to never talk to him again.
But you found out later, or at least were told later, that his mom sent herself into the hospital because she wanted him to pay attention to her. Apparently, it worked.
You really didn’t talk to him for a while after that botched trip to New York. But he called again three months later. To actually put a good college try into not speaking to him continue…
His best friend died, overdosed. Sitting shiva, he called you, wasted, crying. Apologized for treating you so horribly. Midnight on the Long Island sound, it was chilly on the porch smoking a cigarette. You didn’t recognize the phone number on the caller ID. It was the third time you erased his phone number from your phone. He said he really wanted to be friends. He was sitting on a stoop in the back of the house in Baltimore. With reservations, you said it was okay. Your mind was screaming, “No it’s not! How are you going to tell your friends that you’re friends with him again. This is insanity. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
This time you told yourself you had more realistic expectations. That this friendship would go on for a bit and then he would try to deepen the relationship. You were safe as long as you didn’t fuck him. How does one not have sex with the guy that listens and is so in tune that repeatedly you cum together? Insane. Nothing temporary about it.
You were painting a few months after Philip’s friend died, standing on a ladder in the new restaurant. Covering up a tacky paint job with plain red. Speckled red on your face, he came in, sat on a bench and told you how much he loved you. He had come back from Berlin. Wanted to try monogamy. He was drunk, and you were insane.
In the sense that you were repeating past mistakes, it was insanity.
To break this pattern of insanity, go to a second step meeting (page 42), otherwise please read this section repeatedly until it hurts enough, and then go to the second step meeting.
parallel dimension
You’re not an addict. You don’t have to go to meetings. You accepted the offer to attend the Rhode Island School of Design two years after Philip accepted his offer, putting you both in the same school at the same time without being absolutely bananas. You both graduate, you get married to each other, and have four kids named Elliot, Oliver, Edith, and Unknown.
Return to reality, turn to page 42.
Return to reality, turn to page 42.
the constitution
You used to call the women in your life, “Mah Bitches.” You and “Mah Bitches” decided to lay down the law one night. Too much wine was involved.
We the People of this small group of women do hereby declare that all women should have good sex. By this declaration, the following provides a guideline to the "hook-up":
Criteria
I. Men should be
a. Well endowed
b. Not F-U-G-L-Y
c. Must kiss passionately
d. With tongue
e. With hands on body
f. Must have enough money to pay for cab home or at least have decency to wait while searching for cab.
g. Name must be given
h. No substantial criminal record
i. No mention of ex/current attachment
j. Must buy one (1) + drink
k. Must be taller than female
l. Must be interested in female’s conversation
m. Must have a hearty laugh (crow’s feet a plus, but not mandatory)
n. Must have seen and can recite lines from favorite movie
o. Must have shared interests
i. Hobbies
ii. Sports
iii. Music
p. Must have ability to walk on own, and must not fall down when walking.
II. Rules
a. Judge has three (3) denials to one (1) veto of defendant
b. Must call judge by 2:00 AM for approval
c. Judge has ultimate veto power on the following persons:
i. Friends of one (1) + year
ii. Siblings/relatives of friends
iii. Ex/past relationships
1. Old (read: scary) men
2. Dealers
3. Drunken “starers”
4. Emotional fuckwits
5. Manipulators
6. “it’s too bad you don’t like it up the butt.”
7. For some of us, who are turning a “new leaf” – substantial relationship must be in place (hereby known as the “Penelope Clause”)
III. At any time this Constitution may be amended, providing no substantive requirement is altered or removed without prior approval by a majority of the women.
a. A quorum must be present to initiate any amendments to the Constitution
i. Novelty (Exception to the Rules & Criteria)
1. Gay
2. Foreign (solely visiting country)
3. Famous athlete/celebrity
4. Military
5. Aristocrats/diplomats
Addiction is a progressive illness, please return to wherever it was in the journey that you came from. This was just an illustration of your insanity.
We the People of this small group of women do hereby declare that all women should have good sex. By this declaration, the following provides a guideline to the "hook-up":
Criteria
I. Men should be
a. Well endowed
b. Not F-U-G-L-Y
c. Must kiss passionately
d. With tongue
e. With hands on body
f. Must have enough money to pay for cab home or at least have decency to wait while searching for cab.
g. Name must be given
h. No substantial criminal record
i. No mention of ex/current attachment
j. Must buy one (1) + drink
k. Must be taller than female
l. Must be interested in female’s conversation
m. Must have a hearty laugh (crow’s feet a plus, but not mandatory)
n. Must have seen and can recite lines from favorite movie
o. Must have shared interests
i. Hobbies
ii. Sports
iii. Music
p. Must have ability to walk on own, and must not fall down when walking.
II. Rules
a. Judge has three (3) denials to one (1) veto of defendant
b. Must call judge by 2:00 AM for approval
c. Judge has ultimate veto power on the following persons:
i. Friends of one (1) + year
ii. Siblings/relatives of friends
iii. Ex/past relationships
1. Old (read: scary) men
2. Dealers
3. Drunken “starers”
4. Emotional fuckwits
5. Manipulators
6. “it’s too bad you don’t like it up the butt.”
7. For some of us, who are turning a “new leaf” – substantial relationship must be in place (hereby known as the “Penelope Clause”)
III. At any time this Constitution may be amended, providing no substantive requirement is altered or removed without prior approval by a majority of the women.
a. A quorum must be present to initiate any amendments to the Constitution
i. Novelty (Exception to the Rules & Criteria)
1. Gay
2. Foreign (solely visiting country)
3. Famous athlete/celebrity
4. Military
5. Aristocrats/diplomats
Addiction is a progressive illness, please return to wherever it was in the journey that you came from. This was just an illustration of your insanity.
near redundancy
You still had dreams throughout the unmanageablility. You desperately wanted to do
something important for the world and wanted to feel better about yourself. A cliff-hanger.
You started looking for the right grad school. You found John Jay College of CUNY. They have a master’s public administration with an emphasis on inspector general. Your plan was to leave DC August/September of that year, establish residency in NY so the tuition would be lower and work in another club. You though this was communicated clearly to your supervisor and her supervisor in the early Spring.
To make a vast understatement – it felt like this move would be the biggest life-changing event you ever had to wrestle to the ground. You helped train your coworkers on a billing schedule, and thought to use that as leverage in order to get a recommendation in NYC, which would provide a steady income and a community which would be supportive while you adjusted to the change, mentalities and to the social scenes. You thought you could make them agree to hold your raise until leaving the office – therefore cutting their expenses but still raising your per annum salary for negotiation in NY.
This plan was ideal (read: imaginary) and all you had to do was maintain your work
performance.
No meetings, haven’t surrendered, continue reading about the unmanageability.
You dropped the ball somewhere in May and were written up for eight very vague points that were never fully explained because your direct supervisor resigned. You took on another job at a bar, volunteered for social programs at the club and was working seven days a week for April through May. Suffice it to say that you knew your energy level was waning, your patience shortening and your drinking increasing.
You were up for your year review, and at the end of the meeting, you brought up your
recommendation (i.e., imaginary contract). The deputy director of the club said that in light of the two write-ups this year that she didn’t feel she could write you a strong recommendation. And it was a swift kick in the ass.
You started having panic attacks from the stress, and nightmares as well. There was one night when you woke up hysterically crying because in your nightmare you had a schizophrenic break. You called the ex-fiancé and he talked you down to where you could fall asleep again. You had some insomnia, was drinking to help yourself get to sleep, it was just a downward spiral. To realize this imaginary contract, turn to page 25.
To continue on this downward spiral, please turn to page 8
To give up on trying to control things that you have no control over, start taking suggestions (page 10).
something important for the world and wanted to feel better about yourself. A cliff-hanger.
You started looking for the right grad school. You found John Jay College of CUNY. They have a master’s public administration with an emphasis on inspector general. Your plan was to leave DC August/September of that year, establish residency in NY so the tuition would be lower and work in another club. You though this was communicated clearly to your supervisor and her supervisor in the early Spring.
To make a vast understatement – it felt like this move would be the biggest life-changing event you ever had to wrestle to the ground. You helped train your coworkers on a billing schedule, and thought to use that as leverage in order to get a recommendation in NYC, which would provide a steady income and a community which would be supportive while you adjusted to the change, mentalities and to the social scenes. You thought you could make them agree to hold your raise until leaving the office – therefore cutting their expenses but still raising your per annum salary for negotiation in NY.
This plan was ideal (read: imaginary) and all you had to do was maintain your work
performance.
No meetings, haven’t surrendered, continue reading about the unmanageability.
You dropped the ball somewhere in May and were written up for eight very vague points that were never fully explained because your direct supervisor resigned. You took on another job at a bar, volunteered for social programs at the club and was working seven days a week for April through May. Suffice it to say that you knew your energy level was waning, your patience shortening and your drinking increasing.
You were up for your year review, and at the end of the meeting, you brought up your
recommendation (i.e., imaginary contract). The deputy director of the club said that in light of the two write-ups this year that she didn’t feel she could write you a strong recommendation. And it was a swift kick in the ass.
You started having panic attacks from the stress, and nightmares as well. There was one night when you woke up hysterically crying because in your nightmare you had a schizophrenic break. You called the ex-fiancé and he talked you down to where you could fall asleep again. You had some insomnia, was drinking to help yourself get to sleep, it was just a downward spiral. To realize this imaginary contract, turn to page 25.
To continue on this downward spiral, please turn to page 8
To give up on trying to control things that you have no control over, start taking suggestions (page 10).
living amends
You and your mother drove to Lynchburg, Virginia. A place you never expected to see black
people, and yet there was a wedding reception at the hotel where you were staying. The
majority of the partygoers were black, in their Sunday best, it looked like a Hecht’s catalogue
come to life. All the swirling chiffon dresses, huge brimmed hats with amazing feathered
structures rising from on top of coconut-smelling tamed hair dos. Men bounced children on
their shoulders, laid them out like lambs - those that were too tired to dance. The drawling
cacophony followed us into the elevator, and your mother said to you, "Did you see that child
floating?" In a white frothy doilied dress a little girl sucking on her thumb was sleeping across a
man's shoulders. He was dressed all in black, standing in the threshold of the ballroom, all you could see of him was a faint outline that made the child appear to be levitating on the steep rise and fall of sugar from too many glasses of punch.
You two were going to a wedding, the girl who used to live across the street, her name was Penelope too. Standing around nothing to say to anyone, so you did what was suggested for the funeral three weeks ago for Annie Gop. You found the most uncomfortable looking son of a bitch you could find and sat down with him and asked him about him. It turns out all the uncomfortable-looking ones were the people you grew up with. First there was Jim Weintraub, who asked you about your father, if he is still as "anal-retentive" as he used to be? Seriously, what could he expect from you but "almost as tight-assed as you are now..." somehow wrapped up sweetly, like canoli that has gone bad. After subtly suggesting that your father is happy, that yes there is hope for men to find love after 55, but that it usually comes to those who deserve it, you left Jim to talk to his son, Robert. You expected him to be taller somehow. Your mother told you that he's a fireman now. You figured he'd have tons of interesting conversation, that it just took the right prod and off you'd go, exchanging psychosis stories. Not so. Unfortunately, he never did warm up, but was comfortingly complacent and laughed at your cynicism but did not join.
You and your mother were some of the first to leave. She became bearable after her second glass of wine, although seemed self-conscious by asking you constantly if you were okay.
Here's a funny thing about being a woman in a high-society function in a tobacco state. You had to hide to smoke. Cigarettes are cheap, but the great classy southern woman doesn't smoke in front of men, it is still taboo. You followed a friend of Dixie's into some shrubbery behind the ballroom, around from the dining area, on the opposite side of the old country club where the men were roly-poly in their tuxes and bow-ties, suspenders and cummerbunds, smoking cigars, the gentleman's prize; just to smoke a cigarette.
To resist the temptation to flaunt tradition, hide and continue smoking on the back porch, turn the page.
To spit on their sexist conservative bullshit hierarchy, and simultaneously make an ass out of yourself, turn to page 32.
The whole time Dixie’s friend was fretting about where to put the butt, you couldn't flick it into the landscaping! You would have to skulk to the front and try to wallflower our way to the ashtray by the human penguins. So you skulked and had a great time dirtying your ankles in huge dewy hostas with some of the oldest money from Virginia, retiring early, and watching a movie with your mother,
Your next adventure begins on page 35 as long as you keep clean.
people, and yet there was a wedding reception at the hotel where you were staying. The
majority of the partygoers were black, in their Sunday best, it looked like a Hecht’s catalogue
come to life. All the swirling chiffon dresses, huge brimmed hats with amazing feathered
structures rising from on top of coconut-smelling tamed hair dos. Men bounced children on
their shoulders, laid them out like lambs - those that were too tired to dance. The drawling
cacophony followed us into the elevator, and your mother said to you, "Did you see that child
floating?" In a white frothy doilied dress a little girl sucking on her thumb was sleeping across a
man's shoulders. He was dressed all in black, standing in the threshold of the ballroom, all you could see of him was a faint outline that made the child appear to be levitating on the steep rise and fall of sugar from too many glasses of punch.
You two were going to a wedding, the girl who used to live across the street, her name was Penelope too. Standing around nothing to say to anyone, so you did what was suggested for the funeral three weeks ago for Annie Gop. You found the most uncomfortable looking son of a bitch you could find and sat down with him and asked him about him. It turns out all the uncomfortable-looking ones were the people you grew up with. First there was Jim Weintraub, who asked you about your father, if he is still as "anal-retentive" as he used to be? Seriously, what could he expect from you but "almost as tight-assed as you are now..." somehow wrapped up sweetly, like canoli that has gone bad. After subtly suggesting that your father is happy, that yes there is hope for men to find love after 55, but that it usually comes to those who deserve it, you left Jim to talk to his son, Robert. You expected him to be taller somehow. Your mother told you that he's a fireman now. You figured he'd have tons of interesting conversation, that it just took the right prod and off you'd go, exchanging psychosis stories. Not so. Unfortunately, he never did warm up, but was comfortingly complacent and laughed at your cynicism but did not join.
You and your mother were some of the first to leave. She became bearable after her second glass of wine, although seemed self-conscious by asking you constantly if you were okay.
Here's a funny thing about being a woman in a high-society function in a tobacco state. You had to hide to smoke. Cigarettes are cheap, but the great classy southern woman doesn't smoke in front of men, it is still taboo. You followed a friend of Dixie's into some shrubbery behind the ballroom, around from the dining area, on the opposite side of the old country club where the men were roly-poly in their tuxes and bow-ties, suspenders and cummerbunds, smoking cigars, the gentleman's prize; just to smoke a cigarette.
To resist the temptation to flaunt tradition, hide and continue smoking on the back porch, turn the page.
To spit on their sexist conservative bullshit hierarchy, and simultaneously make an ass out of yourself, turn to page 32.
The whole time Dixie’s friend was fretting about where to put the butt, you couldn't flick it into the landscaping! You would have to skulk to the front and try to wallflower our way to the ashtray by the human penguins. So you skulked and had a great time dirtying your ankles in huge dewy hostas with some of the oldest money from Virginia, retiring early, and watching a movie with your mother,
Your next adventure begins on page 35 as long as you keep clean.
penelope the asshole
If you were still imbibing, you'd have been sitting up there with them, flaunting taboos, picking up your own cigar - as you were the person who could claim that you were PeneLocksies FIRST friend and entitled to do anything.
the family closet
This dark house, on a little rise, green front yard, a large oak off to the right. The back yard is terraced with a downward slope into woods. There's a circular driveway and slate steps leading to the entrance, that's as far as I've ever gotten to the house where this family moved to in the late 1940's. It's a tall house, three stories, shingled and painted. Typical New York city suburban wasp house. Cold, a family couldn't afford to heat the whole thing. The mother had sole use of the bathroom closest to the kitchen, it was warm.
Imagine 1956 the father stumbles home, tossed out of a taxi his knees bruised and hands bleeding from the gravel driveway. He drunkenly bangs on the front door and his wife refuses entry. His business just went belly-up that day and closed. They have three children the two eldest are home for the weekend from their boarding prep school. The youngest, nine, so timid and acquiescent, ignores the chaos surrounding him. The father enters a sanitarium for a couple of weeks. His wife seeks the family doctor to medicate them both. Father has been a binge drinker all his life, he'll go two to three months at a time before this breakdown; and the wife tries to help him by trying to control his drinking for him. The doctor, on the cutting edge, prescribes a toxic mix of speed and barbiturates to both mother and father.
The mother starts her drinking. She is a blackout drinker; and this is when the screaming and the fighting, the tantrums, the negative manipulating starts. She withholds the drugs that she buys bulk from a pharmaceutical magazine, like Sears & Roebucks from her husband. She's drunk from the vodka by dinner, she takes some speed to get through it, but she doesn't understand what she is putting in her body since her doctor doesn't understand it either. By the end of dinner she's on autopilot and her husband and her elementary school aged little boy get beaten.
The boy retreats to his room, somewhere safe, he makes model airplanes and boats. The older boys get in-between their parents when they start hitting each other. The youngest enters his boarding prep school, comes home during the weekends to the same reenacted nightly drama.
It's his high school graduation day. You remember yours, vaguely, too inane really to remember all the details. The two older boys went out to meet some friends, leaving the youngest at the house, retreated in his bedroom, and this night the drama played out in his mothers room, adjacent to his own. The same cocktail of vodka, speed and barbiturates, mixed together with the unimpenetrable haze of black. They were fighting again, she was screaming again. There was a pillow over her face to drown her, and it stopped the screaming. The father stumbled out, the vodka dragging his shined shoes on the floor. And she didn't wake up the next morning when he went to work and left her there with her youngest son, just graduated to enter the collegiate world under a terrible shadow.
Imagine 1956 the father stumbles home, tossed out of a taxi his knees bruised and hands bleeding from the gravel driveway. He drunkenly bangs on the front door and his wife refuses entry. His business just went belly-up that day and closed. They have three children the two eldest are home for the weekend from their boarding prep school. The youngest, nine, so timid and acquiescent, ignores the chaos surrounding him. The father enters a sanitarium for a couple of weeks. His wife seeks the family doctor to medicate them both. Father has been a binge drinker all his life, he'll go two to three months at a time before this breakdown; and the wife tries to help him by trying to control his drinking for him. The doctor, on the cutting edge, prescribes a toxic mix of speed and barbiturates to both mother and father.
The mother starts her drinking. She is a blackout drinker; and this is when the screaming and the fighting, the tantrums, the negative manipulating starts. She withholds the drugs that she buys bulk from a pharmaceutical magazine, like Sears & Roebucks from her husband. She's drunk from the vodka by dinner, she takes some speed to get through it, but she doesn't understand what she is putting in her body since her doctor doesn't understand it either. By the end of dinner she's on autopilot and her husband and her elementary school aged little boy get beaten.
The boy retreats to his room, somewhere safe, he makes model airplanes and boats. The older boys get in-between their parents when they start hitting each other. The youngest enters his boarding prep school, comes home during the weekends to the same reenacted nightly drama.
It's his high school graduation day. You remember yours, vaguely, too inane really to remember all the details. The two older boys went out to meet some friends, leaving the youngest at the house, retreated in his bedroom, and this night the drama played out in his mothers room, adjacent to his own. The same cocktail of vodka, speed and barbiturates, mixed together with the unimpenetrable haze of black. They were fighting again, she was screaming again. There was a pillow over her face to drown her, and it stopped the screaming. The father stumbled out, the vodka dragging his shined shoes on the floor. And she didn't wake up the next morning when he went to work and left her there with her youngest son, just graduated to enter the collegiate world under a terrible shadow.
Day 259. You wanted to understand your father better.
Ask your uncle about the family alcoholism, please turn to page 33.
Now you feel you know too much. You sat with him at dinner, silent, because you don't know what to say. Your father told you that on the day of his graduation, his mother took too many of her sleeping pills that she had forgotten that she took them earlier in the evening, and died in her sleep. But that it was an ambiguous death. There was no investigation into the cause of her death because it was such a respected family, and that the family doctor arranged for this non-procedure. The same doctor that lied to the federal government and made sure that your uncles weren't drafted into the Vietnam War, was good for the family closet.
You wanted to understand what made the man who, when his thirteen year old daughter blacked out drunk wet from a shower with still some of her soaked clothes on, didn't say a word. Nothing. You wanted to understand his denial. and now you hurt so much for that little boy that you feel completely ashamed of yourself. That you held onto a resentment for the way that he treated you when he was drunk, the yelling and the degradation of being embarrassed because your dad was too drunk to drive you home and his college buddies would take you from the glam LA cocktail parties instead, was so horribly selfish.
You had forgiven him before you heard this story. You didn't need to know. You wonder if his parents ever told him as often as he tells you how much he loves you. You wonder if they ever said, "I'm so happy you're here." You don't know what to do with the attention, you falter when he says it. You say that it's good to be here and it's wonderful to relax. What should you say? You want to be able to take away that hurt and tell him that you'll be okay, that he's doing a good job. That you won't drink, and you won't turn into his mother and abandon him. That you love him too.
Ask your uncle about the family alcoholism, please turn to page 33.
Now you feel you know too much. You sat with him at dinner, silent, because you don't know what to say. Your father told you that on the day of his graduation, his mother took too many of her sleeping pills that she had forgotten that she took them earlier in the evening, and died in her sleep. But that it was an ambiguous death. There was no investigation into the cause of her death because it was such a respected family, and that the family doctor arranged for this non-procedure. The same doctor that lied to the federal government and made sure that your uncles weren't drafted into the Vietnam War, was good for the family closet.
You wanted to understand what made the man who, when his thirteen year old daughter blacked out drunk wet from a shower with still some of her soaked clothes on, didn't say a word. Nothing. You wanted to understand his denial. and now you hurt so much for that little boy that you feel completely ashamed of yourself. That you held onto a resentment for the way that he treated you when he was drunk, the yelling and the degradation of being embarrassed because your dad was too drunk to drive you home and his college buddies would take you from the glam LA cocktail parties instead, was so horribly selfish.
You had forgiven him before you heard this story. You didn't need to know. You wonder if his parents ever told him as often as he tells you how much he loves you. You wonder if they ever said, "I'm so happy you're here." You don't know what to do with the attention, you falter when he says it. You say that it's good to be here and it's wonderful to relax. What should you say? You want to be able to take away that hurt and tell him that you'll be okay, that he's doing a good job. That you won't drink, and you won't turn into his mother and abandon him. That you love him too.
…and hope
Week 39. You met a little bit of peace one night in one of the most surreal experiences ever. Even more surreal than meeting Mr. Miagi on Main Avenue, Thomas walked out of a cab and told you about you heart murmur, possible lump under your right breast or lung, that your knee was obliterated. He told you that you need to let go, that you will be married in two years to an older man and have three kids. He told you that you don't believe in yourself and that you’re too hard on yourself. He also told you to write a book. and he sang to you. You were so awestruck by this meeting, which lasted about an hour that you didn't get to bed until 4:30 in the morning.
Your budget was going well, so you splurged on a latte in the morning. Thomas said to take care of yourself, so you listened when he suggested you drive with the windows open. These gusts of wind sucked a $20 bill out of your car and into the great wide open.
You thought that you could get away with "flex" time at work - like your other co-workers. You were "misinformed". It felt like people were looking at you differently. This was not the time to get caught, because you were up for a two-year review. You thought you were doing better. You think to yourself, “How come I get caught coming in late because I had an amazing experience the night before that I believe was like a torch of god or something hyperbolic like that. and others at the office leave hours early, take long lunch breaks, LIE about where they are going, and I am the one that gets the "this is not okay" speech?”
To follow Thomas’ suggestions, continue.
To completely disregard this man as a nutter because none of it has come to fruition, please turn to page 47.
To turn it over, turn to page 12, then go to page 42, and if you need to, pray (page 49).
To stay in an anger-ball, get self-righteous, please return to page 8 or 16. When you’re in enough pain and don’t want to be miserable anymore, please come to the fourth step meeting (page 44).
Your budget was going well, so you splurged on a latte in the morning. Thomas said to take care of yourself, so you listened when he suggested you drive with the windows open. These gusts of wind sucked a $20 bill out of your car and into the great wide open.
You thought that you could get away with "flex" time at work - like your other co-workers. You were "misinformed". It felt like people were looking at you differently. This was not the time to get caught, because you were up for a two-year review. You thought you were doing better. You think to yourself, “How come I get caught coming in late because I had an amazing experience the night before that I believe was like a torch of god or something hyperbolic like that. and others at the office leave hours early, take long lunch breaks, LIE about where they are going, and I am the one that gets the "this is not okay" speech?”
To follow Thomas’ suggestions, continue.
To completely disregard this man as a nutter because none of it has come to fruition, please turn to page 47.
To turn it over, turn to page 12, then go to page 42, and if you need to, pray (page 49).
To stay in an anger-ball, get self-righteous, please return to page 8 or 16. When you’re in enough pain and don’t want to be miserable anymore, please come to the fourth step meeting (page 44).
bank lollipops
Week 44. Hawley, PA next to Lake Lackawanna in the Poke-a-nose (Algonquin for "Watch out for the monster-sized possum") was a very small town. You were under the impression that when in the NEPA (northeast Pennsylvania) area that antique-ing was really the touristy thing to do. You spent about three hours doing just that. What kind of gift does one get for a couple whom one doesn't know? Here's what you knew about them, previous to the wedding: they're editors. They work together. They live in DC. They are friends with very esoteric, underground movie and music buffs.
You couldn't get them anything to do with children? couldn't presume. You couldn't get them any particular book, they're editors, they should do pretty well on their own about books. Some strange antique thing? – You are fairly good at finding chach-kas, but that's not everybody's thing.
The beautiful thing about Hawley is that Simon found a bar and left you to wandering around between three shops putting different ideas together. At the second store you thought that bookends would be perfect, but couldn't find any, so you went back to the first store. The ends you found were HEAVY, and that would be painful bringing them back to DC.
Then, tucked back between two Virgin Mary candleholders and a small rocker, you saw a little shine of a picture frame. You bought the frame and went back to the second store after using the Windex to try to get the gunk off the front of the glass from the sticker (that lady wasn't very helpful). At the second store, you and Valerie went through a file folder filled with used postcards from all over. You found a picture of Hawley and put it in the picture frame. She didn't have any stuff to get the gunk off the glass either. You got a parking ticket during all of this! Spent almost 24 hours in NYC with nothing (other than a warning from NYPD about turning
right from the center lane) and you make it to Bob's country PA and get a parking ticket. It was only $5. But the principle though! You went to the jeweler’s. Devon, stuttered and was from somewhere in Central America, polished and buffed the picture frame while you tried for about a half an hour to get the gunk off the glass, still.
Put it all together and was verra verra proud of it.
Later in the evening, you met some more people from Hawley. Tom, originally from Philadelphia, was a huge pear shaped man. He was "pissed" and very angry when your party left the bar (you had developed a splitting headache from lack of oxygen - very smoky bar). Cathy was the bartender that looked up your license in the license almanac and told you it was a "pain in the butt." Later she cut off Simon because he was talking to Tom. John was missing most of his teeth, except the right top incisor (just like Mr. Charles at work, snaggletooths). He ran the pool table for about .. Tom, Chris, Richard, Mr. New York ...four people before he lost to you. He was a joy to play against. He was so nice and had really interesting hands. He was about your height with no heels, but since you were wearing the most awesome shoes ever, he
was shorter. He scratched on his 8ball shot. You won by default. Tom wanted a piece afterwards. But since you had already saved Simon from Aubree at the ATM, Jess' lipstick from dire straights on the roads of Hawley and Mr. New York from Simon; you figured you could do with some sleep.
In Hawley, the bank offered lollipops.
Continue on in your recovery, keep going to meetings, keep living life on life’s terms. Read the next adventure (page 37). These are all things that happen a month before you celebrate your first whole year in recovery.
You couldn't get them anything to do with children? couldn't presume. You couldn't get them any particular book, they're editors, they should do pretty well on their own about books. Some strange antique thing? – You are fairly good at finding chach-kas, but that's not everybody's thing.
The beautiful thing about Hawley is that Simon found a bar and left you to wandering around between three shops putting different ideas together. At the second store you thought that bookends would be perfect, but couldn't find any, so you went back to the first store. The ends you found were HEAVY, and that would be painful bringing them back to DC.
Then, tucked back between two Virgin Mary candleholders and a small rocker, you saw a little shine of a picture frame. You bought the frame and went back to the second store after using the Windex to try to get the gunk off the front of the glass from the sticker (that lady wasn't very helpful). At the second store, you and Valerie went through a file folder filled with used postcards from all over. You found a picture of Hawley and put it in the picture frame. She didn't have any stuff to get the gunk off the glass either. You got a parking ticket during all of this! Spent almost 24 hours in NYC with nothing (other than a warning from NYPD about turning
right from the center lane) and you make it to Bob's country PA and get a parking ticket. It was only $5. But the principle though! You went to the jeweler’s. Devon, stuttered and was from somewhere in Central America, polished and buffed the picture frame while you tried for about a half an hour to get the gunk off the glass, still.
Put it all together and was verra verra proud of it.
Later in the evening, you met some more people from Hawley. Tom, originally from Philadelphia, was a huge pear shaped man. He was "pissed" and very angry when your party left the bar (you had developed a splitting headache from lack of oxygen - very smoky bar). Cathy was the bartender that looked up your license in the license almanac and told you it was a "pain in the butt." Later she cut off Simon because he was talking to Tom. John was missing most of his teeth, except the right top incisor (just like Mr. Charles at work, snaggletooths). He ran the pool table for about .. Tom, Chris, Richard, Mr. New York ...four people before he lost to you. He was a joy to play against. He was so nice and had really interesting hands. He was about your height with no heels, but since you were wearing the most awesome shoes ever, he
was shorter. He scratched on his 8ball shot. You won by default. Tom wanted a piece afterwards. But since you had already saved Simon from Aubree at the ATM, Jess' lipstick from dire straights on the roads of Hawley and Mr. New York from Simon; you figured you could do with some sleep.
In Hawley, the bank offered lollipops.
Continue on in your recovery, keep going to meetings, keep living life on life’s terms. Read the next adventure (page 37). These are all things that happen a month before you celebrate your first whole year in recovery.
say when
Week 46. Your oldest cousin George got married to the quintessential southern bride. Your mom, little brother, and little sister loaded into the car at 4am and headed south. You lost my shit somewhere in North Carolina over an invitation that wasn't extended to you to go to the nail salon with Mary (the bride) who had invited your little sister. At the time, you thought that it was your Aunt Stella that had not included you and so in a huff asked if you could go along, and also pointed out to the family members in the car that it was hurtful and rude for Stella to not think of you or of your mother on this excursion to be pampered. To this, Emma, your little sister, said that the reason you weren't invited was because she is Stella's favorite. To which, you retaliated the only way you could, turned up the music that you knew she wouldn't like and prayed hard that you wouldn't say something hurtful back. Turns out it wasn't Stella's idea at all, it was Mary’s and she had no idea that you were even coming. So after venting into the phone to your new temporary sponsor, Lala, calling Emma a cunt and a bitch, complaining to my mom, you made it to the appointment. Emma was about in tears because she didn't know any of the people there getting their nails done, so she might have been glad to have you around, including her in conversations and sharing smirks when the step-mother and mother of the bride were competing over whose nails looked the best (along with making some risqué remarks about those "little black girls" and generalizing that just about all Vietnamese marriages are arranged - it was a throw back).
After some sunbathing, getting shit from your family for the tattoos, everyone made it over to the Rehearsal dinner. Your uncles were talking about going golfing the next morning with George and his friends while the bridal party went and got gussied up. Uncle Neil fell while cleaning the pool on Wednesday and so they were short one in one of the fours. You asked if it was for guys only, or if you could come along. They said you could, and you arranged for your Uncle Bobby to drive you over with you cousin, Chris "City Boy.” At 7:15am the next morning you get a knock at the door, completely missed the alarm clock (which was supposed to be from your little brother who was sleeping in Neil and Chris' room), mad dash to get some clothes together and then you were out the door. In the parking lot, Chris asks you if you have
any other shoes, that he doubts flip flops are allowed on the green.
You say, “Well, will they allow me to play barefoot, that's how I've been driving?”
He responds, “Doubt it.”
“Do you think they have shoes for rent?”
“Seriously, like a bowling alley? Doubt it.”
“Well, we'll see.” You say.
Everyone gets there and not only do they not rent shoes, but there aren't any jeans allowed (which of course you were wearing) and you needed to wear a collared shirt.
Now, this is where you need to learn to back down because after buying shoes, pants, a collared shirt, a new glove, breast cancer golf balls, green fees, and rental clubs... you dropped about $300 on a game of golf. ouch.
The up shot to all of this... like a mastercard commercial. Playing golf in Charleston South Carolina with 15 other horrible players just out to have fun, soaking up some fresh air, riding around looking for alligators, losing all the balls you bought, hearing the stodgiest uncle of yours (Bruce) say "fuck" twice, laughing out loud, and parring twice in your first 18 hole game of golf is absolutely priceless.
Later that evening, everyone stood up for about five minutes while the JOP married your cousin to Mary and then danced and danced. You and your younger brother, Nathan, left early to go meander around Charleston. It is a beautiful city for a lady to be escorted around by her little brother, who passed for a 22 year old going to Princeton, at the bar for the after party. Five rum and cokes later, he was still a great escort; you were fairly impressed. A couple of weeks ago a native from the area told you to go to Foley Beach, so you and Nathan and City Boy headed out there after the after party and ... well .. you almost went swimming, but Nathan said that sharks like to feed in the moonlight. So you drew pictures in the sand and waded into your waist... moving around a lot... figured you wouldn't be eaten if you were a moving target.
After an eight-hour drive home you curled up with your cat, Trece, and was partially suffocated by him.
After some sunbathing, getting shit from your family for the tattoos, everyone made it over to the Rehearsal dinner. Your uncles were talking about going golfing the next morning with George and his friends while the bridal party went and got gussied up. Uncle Neil fell while cleaning the pool on Wednesday and so they were short one in one of the fours. You asked if it was for guys only, or if you could come along. They said you could, and you arranged for your Uncle Bobby to drive you over with you cousin, Chris "City Boy.” At 7:15am the next morning you get a knock at the door, completely missed the alarm clock (which was supposed to be from your little brother who was sleeping in Neil and Chris' room), mad dash to get some clothes together and then you were out the door. In the parking lot, Chris asks you if you have
any other shoes, that he doubts flip flops are allowed on the green.
You say, “Well, will they allow me to play barefoot, that's how I've been driving?”
He responds, “Doubt it.”
“Do you think they have shoes for rent?”
“Seriously, like a bowling alley? Doubt it.”
“Well, we'll see.” You say.
Everyone gets there and not only do they not rent shoes, but there aren't any jeans allowed (which of course you were wearing) and you needed to wear a collared shirt.
Now, this is where you need to learn to back down because after buying shoes, pants, a collared shirt, a new glove, breast cancer golf balls, green fees, and rental clubs... you dropped about $300 on a game of golf. ouch.
The up shot to all of this... like a mastercard commercial. Playing golf in Charleston South Carolina with 15 other horrible players just out to have fun, soaking up some fresh air, riding around looking for alligators, losing all the balls you bought, hearing the stodgiest uncle of yours (Bruce) say "fuck" twice, laughing out loud, and parring twice in your first 18 hole game of golf is absolutely priceless.
Later that evening, everyone stood up for about five minutes while the JOP married your cousin to Mary and then danced and danced. You and your younger brother, Nathan, left early to go meander around Charleston. It is a beautiful city for a lady to be escorted around by her little brother, who passed for a 22 year old going to Princeton, at the bar for the after party. Five rum and cokes later, he was still a great escort; you were fairly impressed. A couple of weeks ago a native from the area told you to go to Foley Beach, so you and Nathan and City Boy headed out there after the after party and ... well .. you almost went swimming, but Nathan said that sharks like to feed in the moonlight. So you drew pictures in the sand and waded into your waist... moving around a lot... figured you wouldn't be eaten if you were a moving target.
After an eight-hour drive home you curled up with your cat, Trece, and was partially suffocated by him.
lucky lucky white horse
Your dad used to live in California. You'd go on long drives up into the Sierra Mountains. You'd stop in gee-dunk little towns, wizz by huge juniper trees, he taught you how to drive somewhere on those long drives. You'd pull over to take pictures of the queen ann's lace, pet the snotty felted noses of cows lured over by your mooing noises... and the grass in your hand, stuck through barbed wire fences. Under azure skies you'd speed. Go camping by mountain lakes, feed mallards breadcrumbs. Clean your dishes from rusted spigots splashing freezing water. There'd be farms with lolling muddy fields, pungent with horse manure in the paddocks.
Every once and a while, he'd invite whoever he was dating to come join you. Linda taught you how to embroider, recite lewis carrols' the jabberwocky, and how to wish on white horses.
Every once in a while you’re speeding through Virginia, just driving to get away, just to feel unattached, just to feel expendable, you'll see a horse. you'll slow down, crane your neck, like it will make the wish more feasible and even if he's dappled you'll say "lucky lucky white horse, lucky lucky me. lucky lucky white horse, bring good luck to me."
Every once and a while, he'd invite whoever he was dating to come join you. Linda taught you how to embroider, recite lewis carrols' the jabberwocky, and how to wish on white horses.
Every once in a while you’re speeding through Virginia, just driving to get away, just to feel unattached, just to feel expendable, you'll see a horse. you'll slow down, crane your neck, like it will make the wish more feasible and even if he's dappled you'll say "lucky lucky white horse, lucky lucky me. lucky lucky white horse, bring good luck to me."
screaming on lexington avenue
About a month before you went into the hospital, you and Philip were in New York. You can’t quite remember the events leading up to the argument, but the denouement took place on Lexington Ave up in the 80s while it started down by Astor place. You and Philip role-play as if you have children. So far, there is Elliot, the oldest who is a freshman at college now. Then there is Oliver, the antithesis of Elliot, he is the worst dork inside of you all. Then Edith is sixteen and getting into trouble with drugs. The youngest, brilliant, doesn’t actually have a name yet.
He role-plays himself as the dad and you role-play as Edith. You play yourself actually, a caricature of yourself, an extreme. This role-play evolves into a philosophical discussion about addiction. What does it mean? What is it? How does one assuredly diagnose? Is it black and white? No doubt these are questions addicts hold internal dialogues over, and it is part of discussions between addicts. In your head you ask, “Do I know all the answers? What answers will I have when I become a mother? Will I even be a mother?” He doesn’t like talking about it, because it turns into an argument over definitions and dogma. Posturing humility, you say that the definition of addiction and all the consequential shit that comes along with it don’t actually matter in a discussion between the two of you. All you need from him is his respect for the fact that you call yourself an addict. These last two points were made on the upper east side, jumping up and down, foot stomping, arms flailing, and your voice raised in serious consternation. That is the brilliant part of New York City, no one cared. Being emotional is not taboo.
A moment of calm overcame you though, after your outburst and his lack of reaction. Whether he was trying to or not, he assisted you in coming to know that first, you are human. Then you are an addict. Then you are Penelope.
You slept so well that night. He feathered your back with butterfly kisses when you cuddled. This is why you love him. You can fight him, you can argue, and be as stubborn as you like. You’re not afraid any longer to be yourself; that is a gift from being in recovery. Thinking about it, you guess then what you love about him is not that you can be yourself with him; but that he swims alongside you in your processes, patiently, tolerantly, compassionately.
He role-plays himself as the dad and you role-play as Edith. You play yourself actually, a caricature of yourself, an extreme. This role-play evolves into a philosophical discussion about addiction. What does it mean? What is it? How does one assuredly diagnose? Is it black and white? No doubt these are questions addicts hold internal dialogues over, and it is part of discussions between addicts. In your head you ask, “Do I know all the answers? What answers will I have when I become a mother? Will I even be a mother?” He doesn’t like talking about it, because it turns into an argument over definitions and dogma. Posturing humility, you say that the definition of addiction and all the consequential shit that comes along with it don’t actually matter in a discussion between the two of you. All you need from him is his respect for the fact that you call yourself an addict. These last two points were made on the upper east side, jumping up and down, foot stomping, arms flailing, and your voice raised in serious consternation. That is the brilliant part of New York City, no one cared. Being emotional is not taboo.
A moment of calm overcame you though, after your outburst and his lack of reaction. Whether he was trying to or not, he assisted you in coming to know that first, you are human. Then you are an addict. Then you are Penelope.
You slept so well that night. He feathered your back with butterfly kisses when you cuddled. This is why you love him. You can fight him, you can argue, and be as stubborn as you like. You’re not afraid any longer to be yourself; that is a gift from being in recovery. Thinking about it, you guess then what you love about him is not that you can be yourself with him; but that he swims alongside you in your processes, patiently, tolerantly, compassionately.
love life
He strokes your hand. Light little brushes during the movie. The two of you are joking about having to run down the hallway in the artsy movie theatre downtown to get to the bathroom. The medium size of diet coke that is most likely the cause of your late night writing, was the size of a small bathtub. You can’t drink caffeine very often anymore because of the medication for your depression, it’s got a little bit of a kick to it. An almost twenty-seven year old who drinks decaf coffee, you hang your head and pretend like you’re not affected by the rationale.
Before the movie started you were talking about the bathtub as a perfectly good topic to wax indignant. He pulled at the little wisps of hair by your ear. He likes to put his finger below your nose and to brush up over the septum to the bridge. He has such long elegant fingers. Well manicured. You love snuggling your face into the crook of his neck, breathing deeply that smell of someone you’re comfortable with. Feeling his soft hair tickle your lips.
There is that brief moment of movie-drunkenness; that movie euphoria when people get stuck in the empathy and the story and the action for a while after the movie ends. Wandering out of the small theatre with a stupid smile on your face, like you used to wear stoned. In the filing out, up the aisle and funneled out the door, you reached for his jacket, so as to not be separated.
Twenty years ago, three feet shorter, in a sea of pant legs you reached for you’re your father’s khakis, so as to not be separated. You held on until reaching the door, when the stranger looked down at you and asked if you needed help. Saucers staring at an hundred and forty degree angle, frightened. A deep inhale and the following “lost” yell brought your dad to the man with the matching khakis.
Remembering this as you reach for Phillips corduroy jacket brought a smile to your face. Wanting to remember it for the purpose of writing it down, you shuffled around in the mary- poppin's faux leather bag for a pen. You wrote on your hand, “pants 5 movie theatre.” He pulls your hand to him so he can decipher your scribbled notes. He guesses all the way out of the theatre what it means to you. It was a fun game.
a god of your understanding
at midnight you sat in a poorly lit second floor sweltering room in the middle of downtown. midnight meetings were never that well attended. but the poor souls sitting in the room wanted recovery so they came started sharing about their lives and their gods.
as you sat listening, you were introspective, running over all the ideas you had about what god was. in the meetings people said that it was god of their understanding. you could see a spirit in the people that you worked with. people diagnosed with serious mental illness who came to work even though the voices whispered distractions, sometimes screamed obscenities, and told them jokes making their laugher bubble out at inopportune moments. you were awed by how someone in the depths of a serious depression could get out of bed on time, shower, tie their shoes and try day-in and day-out to become accepted in american society. that's what you saw, you saw something moving them. and when people in the rooms spoke of insanity, that's what you had to compare to. the insanity that the literature talks about though is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results though, not the same type of mental illness. it was a more generic type of insanity. even though you saw insanity and spirit in everyone around you, you don't think that there's a spirit in you. you're so broken, so unworthy of love, so self-centered that you imagine that you're the one singled out for rejection. tears stream down your face, sitting quietly in the middle of the dank humidity.
a rotund black woman in a tight white shirt comes up to you after the meeting has ended, after you shared about what you had been thinking about, she hugs you and tells you that you're in the right place.
A few days later you went out to eat to a hookah bar after a meeting with a bunch of other people in recovery, one of whom is working on a doctorate in philosophy. As you sit across the table, smugly humored by your own wit you say, "If it's a god of my understanding, and I have a disease of fucked up thinking, what's to say that my god isn't fucked as a result?" Over his food, hand almost to his mouth he chuckles and says, "it doesn't matter." At that moment, his serene confidence that the idea of a higher power isn't a logic problem settles. To start thinking about your higher power as a string that connects all people, as simple humanity, some sort of transcendental entity, move onto page 35.
Most people describe the abyss of their spiritual condition when they were using as a "god- sized hole." Without something to move into the void left by self-medication, that you can't move away from feeling abandoned and bereft. If you'd like to stay in this banal existence go back to where you were and keep repeating the same mistakes and expect different results until you're ready to make new mistakes and trust that you will be taken care of by something other than yourself.
as you sat listening, you were introspective, running over all the ideas you had about what god was. in the meetings people said that it was god of their understanding. you could see a spirit in the people that you worked with. people diagnosed with serious mental illness who came to work even though the voices whispered distractions, sometimes screamed obscenities, and told them jokes making their laugher bubble out at inopportune moments. you were awed by how someone in the depths of a serious depression could get out of bed on time, shower, tie their shoes and try day-in and day-out to become accepted in american society. that's what you saw, you saw something moving them. and when people in the rooms spoke of insanity, that's what you had to compare to. the insanity that the literature talks about though is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results though, not the same type of mental illness. it was a more generic type of insanity. even though you saw insanity and spirit in everyone around you, you don't think that there's a spirit in you. you're so broken, so unworthy of love, so self-centered that you imagine that you're the one singled out for rejection. tears stream down your face, sitting quietly in the middle of the dank humidity.
a rotund black woman in a tight white shirt comes up to you after the meeting has ended, after you shared about what you had been thinking about, she hugs you and tells you that you're in the right place.
A few days later you went out to eat to a hookah bar after a meeting with a bunch of other people in recovery, one of whom is working on a doctorate in philosophy. As you sit across the table, smugly humored by your own wit you say, "If it's a god of my understanding, and I have a disease of fucked up thinking, what's to say that my god isn't fucked as a result?" Over his food, hand almost to his mouth he chuckles and says, "it doesn't matter." At that moment, his serene confidence that the idea of a higher power isn't a logic problem settles. To start thinking about your higher power as a string that connects all people, as simple humanity, some sort of transcendental entity, move onto page 35.
Most people describe the abyss of their spiritual condition when they were using as a "god- sized hole." Without something to move into the void left by self-medication, that you can't move away from feeling abandoned and bereft. If you'd like to stay in this banal existence go back to where you were and keep repeating the same mistakes and expect different results until you're ready to make new mistakes and trust that you will be taken care of by something other than yourself.
i’ll let it
There’s that scene in Indiana Jones and the last crusade when he has passed through the first two tests in order to get to the arc of the covenant. He’s standing at the chasm and takes a step onto the bridge that he can't see. That's what letting go and trusting feels like. When he bends down to pick up dirt, to throw onto the rest of the bridge, that's what you do when you go to meetings. It reassures you that there are other people who have let the process of the steps heal them, and you can see it and hear it when you go to meetings.
Your best friend struggled with what she considered her higher power. In a moment of clarity, she imagined that her god was powerful like Bruce Lee, but had compassionate eyes and feathered hair like Michael Landon. When you think of your higher power, it comes as simply being human. Every single day is an opportunity to consider your choices and act in a way that is guileless.
When you do the next right thing, and get out of outcomes, you are trying to align with what it is that your higher power wants for you. You can progress to page 44 to move into action, before you do though, practice taking contrary action, turn to page 40.
Your best friend struggled with what she considered her higher power. In a moment of clarity, she imagined that her god was powerful like Bruce Lee, but had compassionate eyes and feathered hair like Michael Landon. When you think of your higher power, it comes as simply being human. Every single day is an opportunity to consider your choices and act in a way that is guileless.
When you do the next right thing, and get out of outcomes, you are trying to align with what it is that your higher power wants for you. You can progress to page 44 to move into action, before you do though, practice taking contrary action, turn to page 40.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
fearless & thorough
it was the place where you went for a meeting the first time for yourself. a church basement with forty chairs positioned in an oblong circle. the far side of the seating was designated for the smokers, although in the smoky room everyone was effectively smoking. the chairs were the hard plastic bucket kind of 1970s orange and light olive green.
you only had been going to meetings for about a month. you had already sat poolside with your sponsor a week previous, and had read from the front cover of the literature, all the prefaces of previous versions and about what the program had to say about spirituality. Did you believe you were powerless over your addiction? Yes. Did you think that maybe there was something else greater than you that could relieve you of your addiction? Yes. Did you believe that you would let that something else take care of you? Yes.
"I can't. It can. I'll let it."
You had just returned from a weekend in the depths of Virginia with your mother. On the way north, home, you started a conversation with your mother about how dysfunctional you thought the family was. You started it and finished it in one breath, "But I don't want to talk about it now." and lapsed into silence for the remained of the three hour drive, letting your mother sit in that heavy morass of judgment. Which brings you to the meeting you had been attending on Monday nights since you stopped using.
When your sponsor had directed you to write a list of the people who you resented, you wrote down your "bitch list" as suggested. Your family members, past boyfriends, friends from high school, people in high school who you wanted to be friends with but never were, learning institutions, and time made it onto that quick list. You didn't really know how to proceed with writing a fourth step but you were taking the short iterative steps that your sponsor suggested.
The meeting was a step and tradition meeting, meaning that the person sharing at the
beginning spoke on a step and tradition for fifteen minutes and then other people would share after, their experience strength and hope on the topic. Each week progressed to a new step, starting at the first and then finishing with the twelfth. People shared about how working on a document where they were listing the people and institutions they held resentments against and subsequently, how their own character defects contributed to the relationships left them angry, irritable and discontent. You related to those feelings as was evidenced in your conversation with your mother. You shared in the meeting that your sponsor had directed you to start on your fourth step but that you didn't like feeling so many emotions and so thought maybe you should put it off. You didn't want to hurt anyone while in the process of the moral
inventory.
After the meeting your new friends came up to you and related that if you were already started in on the step and writing that the best thing to do was forge ahead and try to be honest and thorough, to continue on.
To trust their experience, to trust in the process, continue writing. It might take you a couple months of slow progress, but the gift of seeing your part, accepting your part, and actively working on enumerating the wreckage on your side of the street, to constantly be working belief that you will be taken care of in all facets of your life will be the beginning of living by principles. Acting your way into a new way of thinking. Once you've started healing yourself, and going through the steps to start repairing some of the relationships in your life, turn to
30, 34 or 41.
Maybe you need a little more time ruminating on how to take suggestions, turn to page 10.
l.a. story
you learned when to say when. And when to keep going.
A geographic move was not necessary to embrace life, yet with 3000 miles between you and the Unicorn, you have successfully misdirected all carrier pigeons he might send your way. You stuck out your neck and by some strange twist of economics found a paid internship in the field you want to work in. While there were some ups and downs in your friendship with Sarah, you don’t regret turning the page and taking a chance.
You went out to coffee dressed in a unitard and a sundress in cowboy boots.
You went searching for the Bat Cave in the Hollywood Hills.
You drove north to San Francisco, went hiking to the top of a mountain and listened to a man share his spiritual story while the wind tore his words away.
You sought peace through free yoga classes in Santa Monica, and pondered why more people don’t fart in some of the poses.
You laughed until you cried over waffles at brunch.
You tripped over a fifty-pound bull-dog at a gansta-rap sushi joint in Thai Town wearing five- inch heels.
You got so frustrated you almost threw a tantrum in the used book store in Glendale – all you wanted to read was the Three Musketeers, walked away with Confessions of a Yakuza instead.
You spent an exorbitant amount of time in traffic.
You ran through the sprinklers in Palm Springs… learned a lesson: “Desert in the Winter, Beach in the Summer.”
You read and reread a plethora of trash novels (what your mother calls, “bodice rippers”).
You ventured through a ghost-town in Arkansas on the way to LA, and had your picture taken with a twelve-foot-tall sculpture of Popeye the Sailorman.
You got a tan.
You quit smoking for ten days, went crazy, and started smoking again.
You saw the morning mist burn off the cliffs of Malibu.
You cried all the way to UCLA, missing your dad, wanting his hugs, realizing that maybe for the first time you didn’t want anything else to replace that pain of missing him.
You practiced patience and acceptance when jobs you are qualified for did not come through.
You practiced humility daily when you admit that maybe coming to California during the worst economy the US has seen since the Great Depression, was not a financially wise move.
You watched a dragonfly skip around the pool drinking water for ten minutes one morning.
You made friends with women in the area in meetings, even though you didn’t know if you were going to stay for long.
You saw a friend from middle school who you haven’t hung out with in over a decade at her babyshower.
Sarah’s baby has her own way of calling for you. You danced with her, swam, ran, and played hide-and-go-seek with her.
You stopped taking the psychotropic medication prescribed to you, and just devoted more energy to countering depression with the cognitive tools you have learned over the years.
You started a book-drive in your area to bring 12-step literature to hospitals and institutions that have been asking for some.
You scooped a divot in the sand, lay down, and fell asleep. You woke up with first degree burns two hours later.
You realized you are taken care of in every way.
prayer
You were baptized catholic, but raised in an episcopal church where the rector was skeptic of jesus being the only son of god. You were raised to pick apart prayers, to sift through dogmatic rhetoric to discover the meaning behind. The thought of prayer then was an intellectual exercise for you up until you stopped using drugs. It had been suggested at a couple of points to start praying to your higher power.
It started very simply, you were directed to say "help" when you woke up and "thank you" when you went to bed after a day without a drug. Here was a day though that was trying you. There were machinations going on at work.
To pray, turn the page, otherwise act out, get defensive, start directing blame all around you and get testy at work, return to page 12.
Pause Button
Your office was a remodeled mansion in the middle of the north west section of the city. On the second floor there were two offices situated facing west connected by a small closet filled with filing cabinets and a coat rack. You walk into the closet, close the doors and actually fall to your knees. with your work appropriate pants getting creased, you press your forehead to the floor, your hands laid flat on either side of your head. you say, "god, grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, courage to change the things i can, and the wisdom to know the
difference." you inhale deeply for a few minutes. when you feel your hands stop shaking, you pull your head off the floor, your gaze resting on a dead cricket a foot in front of you. at that moment, you chuckle, imagining your higher power as jiminey cricket. Pushing off the ground, you shake dust off your knees, and as you open the door to one of the offices your boss is startled. She looks up at you, directly in front of her, she leans to the right, looking behind you into the closet, and says, "What on earth are you doing?"
You smile and say, "Nothing."
From that moment on, you know you have a pause button that works. You seek to employ it
at opportune moments, please continue to page 10.
inspired by your friend, sarah terrible
Rejected by the clinical psychology program that you had applied for, you were torn between relief and sadness. You called Sarah crying with this emotional dilemma and she told you it seemed like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure type of problem. “Turn to page 43 if you choose to feel relieved that the next five years of your life will not be spent accruing more debt and incorporating a higher stress level. Turn to page 23 if you’d like to grieve the moment which you were judged and found wanting.”
To dedicate this blog to Sarah, to your higher power to which you try to align your adventure, and to Yoda, who said, “Do or Do Not. There is no Try.” Do continue onto .
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