New Life

Summer has arrived, people. As evidenced by the sheer accumulation of baggage in my vehicle. At any given time, it holds half a camping trip and an entire trip to the beach. The most important feature being BOB the bag. Everyone who knows me has become familiar with BOB. He holds a vast array of important junk. Not the least of which amounts to this:


I'd say BOB and I did pretty well. And to top it all off, I went to my last Lindy Hop lesson tonight and the other two people didn't show up so I got a private lesson. Ha! It was awesome.

Please ignore late night self pity posts. Sometimes the loneliness takes over and it seems too big to overcome. But it IS manageable. Usually by just going to bed already and ending the misery. Ha! Going to fry my skin at Cowgirl's house and play with the munchkins until it's time for the wedding. It's better that way.

Plus, she already made black bean salsa for me. And that's my favorite.

It's too hard tonight. So much, too hard.

Check out these babies. Yummy. I wore them yesterday with my favorite short black flippy skirt. I am kind of a skirt girl. In the summer, I don't wear shorts, I wear skirts. It's been going on since I could pick out my own clothes. The lying started then, too. But that's not as interesting. When I started kindergarten, I told my teacher that my mom made me wear skirts every day and I told my mom that my teacher said that girls had to wear skirts to school. Yeah. Mom put the smack down on THAT one. Hrmph.

I digress. Onto the good stuff. I park up the hill from where I work and the street I cross is kind of busy in the mornings with no light at the intersection. Its a human game of frogger to get across. When it's nice out, I don't mind the wait. I watch people go by in their early morning cars; coffee slurping, music blaring, arguments, sleepy eyes. I just watch. So yesterday, I was not too preturbed. It was a beautiful morning. There was one more truck to pass and I was set to step off the curb, but the truck slowed down and stopped, motioning for me to cross. I thought, "How nice!" Because no one stops. Even when it's pouring rain. I smiled and waved, as I am wont to do and as I went past the front of the vehicle, there it came. The low whistle and the "Hey baby."

Now I know and finally understand that I am a striking woman. Six foot tall, blonde curls, long, long legs? In a short skirt and heels? Okay. I get that. But here are the thoughts I had going through my mind. "I should just turn around and flash them. Seriously. That would be funny." and "Maybe I should flip them off." and the final one." What if I just walked up to the door and leaned in the window and told them that they disgust me?" And instead, I felt my cheeks get red hot, my feet move faster than they should in heels, and I just kept walking with my head down. It really was all I could do not to run. I hate that kind of thing. I hate it. And I also hate that I can't seem to find a response that doesn't involve shaming myself and not them.

I don't mind when men tell me I'm pretty or that I look nice, but that usually comes from people I know and trust. I don't like that whistle thing. It makes me feel yucky. So there. Men? If you've ever done that to a woman? I don't like you anymore and please stop reading my blog. Well, except for Stoogepie. I don't know why he gets a free pass to be disgusting.

In other news, Gay Boyfriend is going away for the weekend and I will be left in the old creaky house by myself, which freaks me out not just a little bit. I hate it when he's gone. It's scaa-wee. But I have a fabulous wedding to go to on Saturday night where all my favorite people will be. And said event precipitated the purchase of a new dress, which ALWAYS makes me happy. Sunday? It might just be the first beach day of the season, followed by a barbeque at Cowgirl's house. I can't wait. Summer? It's here.

And I'm not sure if it had anything to do with the five SWAT Suburbans and a passel of police with their face masks and billy sticks I saw on my way home last night. Seriously. I'm really hoping they were practicing or something.

I met another blogger last night! New vistas are opening up for me, people! When Captain Keebler emailed me to ask if I wanted to meet Captain Crab, my only response was, "Yes." I've been told that I really should consider excising the words, "I'm really shy." from my vocabulary, but we're working on that.

The word "lovely" was used probably way too much, but that's a perfect way to describe the evening. Upon being seated at the restaurant, Captain Crab immediately ordered a dirty steak knife for me should he or Captain Keebler turn out to be serial killers. It never arrived.

Things I learned:

• I really enjoy meeting new people
• I can do a pretty mean pirate "arrrgh"
• When asked to do math in my head, I look around for help without even trying it first. Hrmph. That was interesting to note.
• Herefords can have horns
• Laughing is one of my favorite things to do
• The bubble I live in is expanding at great speed. How exciting is THAT?
• I will probably always be the one that ends the party because I get too tired.

I'm afraid that Captain Keebler was somewhat left out of the conversation for the first hour, so enamored were Captain Crab and I of each other, but we let him back in after a bit. After all, he already knows us. Captain Crab and I had some catching up to do. Three hours later, as we headed home, I smiled silently to myself. I've been collecting lovely evenings more and more of late. How wonderful is that?

Aren't they pretty? They are a product of my most recent assignment from this morning when I raced down the driveway at Tallgrass, certain that the impending doom was going to swallow me. I got met at the door. My favorite man in the whole wide world apparently knows what I need just by watching the way I careen down the asphalt. A big hug, a plate of spaghetti then strawberries and cool whip later, I was instructed to go pick some flowers, wade in the pond, tickle some fish, and then come back and talk.

He pronounced me at def con 4, which in my world is pretty dang good. Off. But not irreconcilably so. I get my own scale for crazy around there. It goes up to 12, because 10 just isn't enough. And guess what I learned? The world and it's people do not exist to please me and only me. Rocket science, huh? And that it's none of my business whether people die or don't die, go crazy, get in accidents or live happily ever after in the land of hippity hoppity Easter bunnies.

"Do other people think about these kinds of things, Tom?"

"Yes, baby. They do. You are NOT unique."

"I have to do this every single fucking day, don't I? This letting go of the need to control everything and everybody around me?"

"Yes, baby. But it gets easier."

"When? Fucking WHEN?"

"When you don't think about it anymore. And it comes automatically. And you've been living that way for awhile. You'll just wake up one morning and say to yourself - this is what I've been waiting for. When you realize that the fear of life not going as you planned is not really living."

"I need another hug."

"Of course you do."

And now? Now, I am going to take a nap. Because after all that, I kicked everyone's ass at frisbee golf.

I'm really, really happy that it's Friday. It's been a hard week, people. Topped off by the fact that I FELL DOWN THE STAIRS at the hospital this morning. I've mentioned that I'm quite the klutz, but it's been awhile since something this entertaining has happened to me. It was just a matter of time. So - THAT'S out of the way for awhile. Here's to a long, restful weekend and hoping that my brain sorts itself out and gets back to where I like it to be.

I thought about going outside and pillaging rocks to draw on, but that's not it. Rocks are just a figment of my imagination when it comes to recovery.

I have created my own rock family here in Sioux Falls. When I got sober - or at least tried to get sober, I started collecting rocks. First, my recovery dad, Joe. He was the first one that I trusted enough to ask questions of. Where is this third step prayer? What does it mean to stay sober one day at a time? Where's this 7th step bullshit? And I have in my very first recovery book - his markings in red pen. Slowly, but surely - still drinking - he introduced me to my recovery mom. I didn't want to talk to the women in recovery. They know when you're lying. The men do, too. But they don't call you on it. It's the women that make you well. My recovery mom is the one that drove me to treatment in the middle of the night and the one that I trust with my life today. Three out of her five children are alcoholics. And when I got sober, none of them were. I was just the recipient of all her prayers for them.

My rock family. Joe - my recovery dad. Barb - my recovery mom. Tom, Bob. Miss M and Cowgirl. There's more, but these are my rocks. Gay Boyfriend is my friend and not a rock, in case you were wondering.

I went to the wake yesterday by myself, knowing that there would be people I would know there. But the panic inside me was more than I could bear. The same funeral home as the Dead Guy. I tried. I really tried. I had every intention of doing the deal for the family that is still here. But I walked in with a stomach ache, lost my breath standing in line to sign the guest book and totally avoided the body. I can't do dead bodies apparently. But I held only Mary Y's hand and did the best I could until I couldn't breathe. Breathing is a big deal, apparently. And Mary told me to go home and take care of myself. But my rocks? They were all there. So when I got home to the swing, there was no one to call. And I panicked even more. In recovery, I have learned to rely on phone calls and not physical presence. It used to have to be physical, then it evolved into phone calls, then it morphed into an understanding that if there was a person - just one person out there that understood what I was going through - I would be okay.

But this new thing. This facing death thing. Fuck. I had no idea that I would be thrown into regression. None whatsoever. And I feel like a failure. But I know I'm not. Every single person I've talked to has told me that remembering what it was like with the Dead Guy when someone I know dies is NORMAL. What the fuck is normal? I hate it.

But back to my rock family. You have to do some serious work to get into the fam. Tellin' ya. I don't hold much sacred, but I do hold my rock family sacred. Sure, they all have character defects. And they don't always act or say things that help, but they're always there. No matter the time of day. No matter if they're doing something super important, they drop it all.

And that means alot for a girl that thinks, most of the time, that she's not worth it. My rock family? They've proven to me time and again, I am worth every second that they spend with me. If I call, crying. If I call, laughing. If I show up at their door bereft. They have the time and the means. And I'm ALL THAT to other people today. I wouldn't have that for a minute if someone hadn't given it to me first.

So when I had the mother of all panic attacks at the funeral home last night, and all my rocks were there and couldn't leave to attend to me? I tried. I tried my best. I made a few phone calls, none of which arrived in time to help, but I did remember that no matter what, someone would call back when they could be there. I SO want to be that for someone someday. So much. And I will. But tonight, I'm sad that I couldn't hold it together. Someday I will. And I'm proud to know that.

Words are my life. I don't know how to describe it, other than they are the medium through which I understand my existence. But I don't seem to be able to speak them. My fingers are fast and furious on the keyboard. When I was in college and writing papers, it had to be pencil on yellow legal pads, or it wasn't good enough. My journals? Always in inky pen. Not roller ball. Ink.

Words order my life. They tell me what I've experienced and what I believe in. My BA was in rhetoric, so of course - words became my being. My love. My weapon. My everything. But I can't seem to speak them. All my heart goes into my writing. When faced with something other than the weather or current events, my throat goes dry and I struggle to have an opinion. But I know that I have something to say. I sit in uncomfortable silence, when my head is racing. I have so much to say that can't seem to be released. So much. So much that it hurts me.

I know how to take action. I know how to deal with life today, but rarely does it mean talking. I love talking. I used to wait for the moment when the Dead Guy had JUST ENOUGH to drink that the conversation would fly. Just enough that I could own his soul with conversation. And I can't seem to do it anymore. It hurts too much. I let my words out few and far between. Those who know me well, know that when I talk intimately, I am scared enough or motivated enough to let it out.

My writing owns it all. I don't hold back with that. Those of you who read me, know me. Those of you who know me in person, don't understand me unless you read me.

I don't know how to make that different, but I do know that I want to use more words. It's my new challenge. To use my words, when writing would make me happier.

After the first death, there is no other - Dylan Thomas


I met the Dead Guy in the psychotel. Seriously. It's no place to meet your spouse. I will not grace you with the thought process that allowed me to think that was okay, but it is what it is. I was very, very inebriated when I was admitted. As usual. He'd been there for two weeks. They were convinced he had tried to kill himself. I know now that his battle cry was the truth, "I just wanted to get high." He didn't want to die, he just made the mistake of driving while intoxicated. And a very bad accident ensued. The first words I ever said to him were, "Whatever floats your boat." when he asked if I wanted to join a late night card game. A moment later, we were sitting in the day room, comparing notes and noticed that we were reading the same book, "A Widow for a Year" by John Irving. I pointed out several passages that meant something to me and he pointed out several others, palmed his Trazadone, and handed it off to me so I could sleep. And that was that. Bring in the singing violins.

The quote comes from that book. And the title of the book is telling. Who would have thought? That three and a half years later, I'd be acting like a widow? The color stripped from my life in one instant.

And that's what it's like. Life loses it's color. Black and white ensues and you don't know how to get even the pastels back. One of the matriarchs of recovery around here died last night. I got the text from a woman that I sponsor who works in hospice. She was there when it happened. And I wanted so badly to be there for her. And I was. Momentarily. When she called later, I held it together. Because I KNOW death. And then she started to describe how this woman's husband clung to her and begged her to help his wife, and I lost it. Only someone who has lost a spouse understands the horror and the pain. No platitudes will do. "I'm sorries." and "She's free." can go fuck themselves. Please don't say a goddamn word. Just hug me and move along thankyouverymuch.

Instantly, and unbidden, I was transported back to that ugly place where the pain lives. I want to grieve this woman, but I'm not allowed to. My head goes back to the Dead Guy. I can't help it. And I want it to stop, but it won't. After the first death, there is no other? What the hell? Am I destined to think of him every time? I was sobbing when I went upstairs and laid down with Gay Boyfriend, who thank God, knows how to deal with my meltdowns. He opens his arms and lets me fall into them and tells me the truth with a capital T. I said, "I can't handle more dead people. I can't DO it. I hate it. Make them stop dying!" And he said, "Kate! That's not life. We are all going to die and the people you love are going to keep dying. Period." I didn't like that. I didn't like it at all. But he held me as I cried, got me soft kleenex and water and watched me until I was tired enough to go to sleep.

I can't handle more dead people. I can't. But I have to. And that sucks. Sucks ALOT. But tomorrow, I am going to put on my big girl panties and do my best. Do my best to be there for someone who hurts more than I do. It's all I CAN do. And I have no platitudes. And I have no words of wisdom. Only a hug and a smile that will not fade. Because I do know that life exists after death. I don't have to like it, but I have to do it.

I adore these shoes. That is all.

Mark your calendars, people! I have an analogy that has nothing to do with recovery! I get a gold star. (And don't think that I don't possess gold star stickers. I do.)

'Backleading' is a popular term used to describe a follower's executing steps without waiting for, or contrary to, or interfering with the lead of the leader. This is also called anticipation and usually considered a bad dancing habit.

I took my first Lindy Hop lesson on Sunday night. I know enough about leading and following at this point, that I usually do indeed, wait for the lead to do their thing. The person I dance with the most will stop dead on the dance floor and say, "Quit it!" if I even attempt to back lead. So yeah, I've learned. Hrmph. But dancing with a totally new lead was something different. He doesn't know HOW to lead and it was all I could do to not go where I wanted to go. He kept saying, "Why aren't you over there?" Pointing to where the other follow ended up. And I said, "Because you didn't take me there." It was frustrating for him, but I know that if I back lead, he'll never learn to be a good lead and that's a shame, no?

If I don't anticipate and I don't assume what's going to happen and follow where I'm led, I get much more of a chance to shine - in all areas of life. And you know what? You can't compel someone to lead you somewhere unless you want them to learn to resent you. Kind of like when Gay Boyfriend tries to guilt me into helping with snow removal. If I do it so he'll shut up already, I'm angry and resentful. If I offer to go in and make hot chocolate instead, hot chocolate never tasted so sweet, because it's what I wanted to do.

And you know what? If you don't like where your lead takes you? Then get a new lead already. Because a life of resentment is not my idea of fun anymore. I've spent too much time there already.

A pox on the swine flu. The Monkey Plague has cometh to pay me a visit. It is the bane of my existence. I keep antibiotics stashed away for this recurring nightmare. I have to say, Gay Boyfriend is kind of a hoover-er when I get sick. It's not entirely bad. He brings me water and ibuprofen, he thinks nothing of a midnight visit to the drug store for more cough syrup, he has been known on occasion to mightily scrub his cast iron tub for me to soak in a hot bath, and he's not above holding my hair when I'm puking. He is - in all regards - a trooper when it comes to me being ill. It is very endearing.

But when I'm not feeling well, the thing I want the most in the whole wide world is for someone to rub my back while I'm going to sleep. And well, he's not into that. He'll rub my FEET any day of the week, but rubbing my back is just a little too intimate for him. And I get it. I totally get it. The man has been known to sew me into my summer dresses sans brassiere because he thinks it looks better, but he draws the line at even thinking about the possibility of touching my breasts. Poor thing. I don't think he remembers they are on the other side of my body when I'm lying face down.

He wins the Gay Boyfriend of the Year award for bringing me hot tea this morning, though. Yes. He definitely wins.

I'm sick of being sad so I'm not going to talk about Therapy Tuesday. Instead, we're going to have happy thoughts. Of the BEACH. Which will be here very, very soon.

This munchin called me last night. She loves playing with her mother's phone when she's in the van and she's figured out that I'm on speed dial. I get random calls from her all the time, which I love, love, love.

"Kate! Remember last year you had those floaty things that we jumped on in the water? And we jumped and jumped and jumped and they popped and we had to throw them away?"

"Yes. I remember."

"Are you going to get some new ones for THIS year?"

"I'm pretty sure I am. You liked them alot."

"Well Mommy said no way in hell."

At which moment I burst into laughter because I can see that conversation playing out in the aisles of WalMart. I love that a three year old can make me laugh like that.

April's Full Moon is called the Pink Moon and is aptly sung by Nick Drake in a song that has put me to sleep many a night.



Mother's Day is so bittersweet for me. The Dead Guy and I lost a baby in North Carolina. It was as it should be. I can't imagine trying to raise a child in the kind of sick environment we were living in, but it was a sorrowful loss regardless. And I'm always a little (or a lot sad) when Mother's Day comes around. Because let's face it. Having a nervous breakdown starting in 2001 and ending in 2006 is really no way to spend your late twenties and early thirties. There was none of that over the rainbow falling in love, getting married and having children crap. It was all crying and hospitals and insanity. But seeing the moon last night and remembering it's name made me just the slightest bit happy. It brought a smile to my face. A much needed one.

In this whole dancing venture, I've met alot of new people. And I don't know how to do it. Sure, I meet new people in recovery all the time, but the talk is of what it used to be like, what happened and what it's like now. We all know each other's stories fairly intimately. If another woman talks to a newcomer and finds that their story relates to mine, they'll point them in my direction and that's that. It's nothing to tell a new person in recovery my whole life story in a half hour if they ask. Meeting "normal" people is different. They chat. They talk about their careers. Their kids. Their hobbies. I don't have a career. I don't have kids. I don't have hobbies. I have recovery. And that's really all I know how to talk about. Maybe some day that will be different, but for now, it's all I have. And for now, it's the most important thing I have. And I don't see that changing in the near future.

These so-called "normal" people? I have a really hard time relating. And it makes me feel very alone. Tonight when we went dancing, I felt more and more alone as the night went on. I remember that feeling well. Seemingly alone in a room full of people. And that was a reason to get really, really drunk. It's a horrible place to be. But I kept smiling and I kept reminding myself that it was all me and that I could choose to do something about it. But I just couldn't. The tears were too close and the fear closed in on me. That's a hard one to bring myself out of. The fear.

This morning, I went to a recovery meeting. The building itself makes me feel safe. Secure. Loved and wanted. All I have to do is drive in and park and I breathe just a little easier. Not because I'm in danger of drinking, but because I know that once I walk in, pour some coffee and light up a cigarette, some wonderful woman who knows exactly what I'm feeling will give me a hug and tell me what it was like for her when she started doing something new in recovery. I laughingly related that someone asked me if I had any ex-es (when "All my ex-es live in Texas came on) and I said, "No. I just have dead people." And one of the wonderful women pointed out how just a few months ago, saying that would have catapulted me into weeks of despair. I don't tell normal people that I have a dead guy behind me most of the time, but when they ask if I'm dating, I usually just say that my fiance died three years ago and I'm still not sure how I feel about it.

I don't say it for people to feel sorry for me. I used to. Oh God, I used to. It was a total attention seeking statement. But now, I just say it as a matter of course. Because OF COURSE it informs who I am today. Waking up to a dead body is not anyone's idea of a good time. It has shaped me. In more ways that I care to think about. And there's no way to candycoat it. No fucking way. So I say it and people give me these puppy dog eyes and "I'm so sorries." And that's not it. It's just a part of who I am. I don't know how to say it without getting that response. Does it need to be said? Hell, I don't know. Maybe it doesn't. But if I want someone to know me, it's a fucking huge part of what there is to understand about who I am.

Maybe I just don't "get" this casual social interaction. Maybe if I just let people assume that I'm horribly shy and not just freaking terrified of life? I don't know. All I know is that I'm pretty sure I'm crawling back into that hole that feels safe. That doesn't mean drinking and it doesn't mean it will last forever. It just means I need to put some things in perspective and go to a hell of a lot more meetings than I have been lately. I'm scared, actually. I haven't felt this alone and afraid for a long, long time. It's terrifying.

I cannot match yesterdays energy in a post, so you get crap today. These are my new shoes. I love them. And I can dance in them.

Also, I am wearing my new pink butterfly underwear that does not creep up my ass. This is an important feature in my life. Pink underwear. What? That they don't crawl up my crack is not as important as the fact that they're pretty. As far as I'm concerned, this is what feminism is about. The fact that I can bash the patriarchy and talk about pink panties in the same breath. It's my prerogative.

AND, I'm going to talk more about my cats. So there. Last night was again, not a good night for me. This insomnia thing can go away any time. But it's not likely to, so I'm just going to continue to complain. Kiki? She doesn't like it when her momma tosses and turns. The look of disdain, the swish of her tail and she's out of there. Dax? He's such a lover. He has to be touching me when he's sleeping. When he was a kitten, he'd sleep on my neck and curl inbetween my breasts. That's where he fit the best. He gets anxious when I can't sleep. He paces, waiting for me to alight somewhere and when I don't, he does his best to "help," which usually includes him lying spread eagle on top of me as in, "If I lay here, she'll calm down and stop moving around." Poor thing. He ended up lying in front of my face last night, sitting and staring at me, willing me to sleep with his eyes.

So when I get off work at three, I will most decidedly be taking a nap. And then? I get to take one of my girlfriend's daughters to her junior high dance. Her mom is working and she's horrified by the thought of her father embarassing her in front of her friends. Oh, the angst! I love that I am a trusted adult in her life. There's nothing much better to me than to be trusted and respected by a child.

I got a wonderful night's sleep. As in ten hours. And I'm raring to go, which means you get a taste of my politics this morning! Before you continue, please note the words "flaming liberal" in my profile. Haters may comment elsewhere. This is my blog. You choose to read it. So if you're a meanie, please go suck it.

South Dakota is the most conservative state I've ever lived in. My doctor doesn't prescribe birth control - it's against his beliefs. It's a toss up whether or not the kids are learning about evolution at school. My head kind of exploded when one of the pastors I worked with suggested I take "our young ladies" to a Purity Conference. We had our Obama yard signs defaced on a regular basis during the election. And abortion comes up at every single opportunity to vote. Whereas I'm sick and tired of even thinking about other women's girlie parts and what they do with them, I will stand firm on abortion rights. FIRM. And I WILL fight. And when I found this in the news the other day, my blood started to boil once again.

Virginity fetishism has even made its way into politics and legislation. In 2007, Republican South Dakota representative Bill Napoli described his support for a ban on abortion that allowed no exceptions for rape or incest by relaying a (quite vivid) scenario to a reporter. He explained under what circumstances the procedure might be warranted: “A real-life description to me would be a rape victim, brutally raped, savaged. The girl was a virgin. She was religious. She planned on saving her virginity until she was married. She was brutalized and raped, sodomized as bad as you can possibly make it, and is impregnated.”

I found this moment so telling: Napoli couldn’t help but let his misogyny and paternalism seep into his abortion sound bite, because, to him and to so many other men (and other legislators, for that matter), there’s no separating virginity, violence, and control over women’s bodies. When it comes to women who are perceived as “impure,” there’s a narrative of punishment that underscores U.S. policy and public discourse — be it legislation that limits reproductive rights through the assumption that women should be chaste before marriage, or a media that demonizes victims of sexual violence. And, sadly, if you look at everything from our laws to our newspapers, Napoli isn’t as far out of the mainstream as we’d like to think.

I can only have an abortion if I was a virgin? If I was religious? If it was a brutal impregnation? If I was sodomized as well? If I was a young girl? And furthermore, if I am an unchaste woman, I am perceived as impure?

I am militant about shame. I can't pull many statistics out of my head at any given moment, but one that I hold firm to is that 75 percent of female alcoholics have been in a sexually abusive relationship during the course of her life. The women that I relate to, the women that befriended me, the women that I work with today in recovery - seventy five percent of them have - at one time - felt the shame that is represented by this news article. And part of my life's purpose today is to undo that shame - one woman at a time. My worth is not based on my physical being. Or any of my sexual activity. No one's worth is. And I will show you in any way that I can, that your worth comes from inside of you.

I have seen first hand, the women who have been the victims of sexual violence become, in a round about way, forced to view themselves as the perpetrator. When I first got into recovery, I noticed that there were certain women giving the "I came into recovery a whore and ended up a lady" speech. Well, they don't give that speech in front of me. I will take them to task. And pretty much everyone knows it. If you buy that speech, you buy the fact that the abuse you endured was your "fault." And that in order to "get better" you should start acting "like a lady." What is a "lady?" Who gets to decide what a "lady" is? And who the hell are you to judge someone in the first place? I get to decide what my body does and does not like. I get to decide what actions I am comfortable taking. I get to decide what my morality looks like.

I didn't know that such things got me so worked up until I moved here. I was always surrounded by people of like mind. And I like that I stand for something. And something as important as making sure that women get to choose. Not only abortions, but choose how they view themselves. Not as pure or impure. Not as chaste or unchaste. Not as damaged goods. Not as objects. But as a woman. Full of life, no matter the past, present or future choices she makes. As a woman. And that it's okay to be proud of that woman. All the time.

Four hours last night. Six the night before. I think I might be on the mend. Why I get it in my head that I don't need to follow directions sometimes, I will not know. I've been down this path before. Hrmph.

The hole never looks as deep or as inviting as it does when my physical health is suffering. I've backed away from it. Carry on, good people.

I'm not doing well.

I went to see the Crazy Doctor yesterday. He asked me all the usual questions. "Are you still going to AA?" Are you drinking in your closet again? "How's your social life?" Are you alienating all your friends by your neediness and crazy? "How's your emotional state?" Is there lots of sobbing going on? "How's the grief?" How many times are you visiting his grave and torturing yourself with photo albums?

And all was quite well. I laughed. He likes it when I laugh. It's much better than the sobbing or the silence, when I just can't come up with words to describe my loneliness and despair. I told him I thought I had finally rejoined the human race and he was very, very pleased. And then he asked about sleep. Sleep has always been a problem for me. A big, big problem. We have tried all kinds of medication, meditation, routine, baths, warm milk, blah blah blah over the years and nothing much works except for the medicine. But I don't like it. It makes me feel hungover. And that's a feeling that I wish to never experience again. So sometimes I get it in my head that I'm not going to take it anymore. I'll have a few good nights and then it all falls to shit. And so does my head.

When I confessed, I got The Look. The one that tells me that I am not allowed to make such decisions on my own and that if I was having trouble with it, all I had to do was call and we'd figure something out. So he sighed, pulled out his prescription pad and said, "We can work on that hungover feeling, but you have to take it. " And I burst into tears because I'm exhausted. And exhausted doesn't make my brain happy at all.

I've been going downhill since Friday and I know that I'm standing on the edge of the hole. It takes so much energy to stay out of the hole, that sometimes I wonder if just jumping in and feeling it and then clawing my way back out would be easier. I haven't made up my mind yet. So last night, I took my medicine and promptly passed out at nine thirty. And I cried all morning in therapy because I'm tired, people. So fucking tired.

I know that posting about pets is like the drudge of blogging, but I'm going to anyway. My cats are a big part of my life. When I was in treatment, it was suggested that I go live at a sober home for six months or so. I declined. Because of my cats. Kiki has been with me for the long haul. She's been there since the beginning of the breakdown and she's still kicking. Albeit, her eyes are mattery and grey, but she's still here. Dax? He's a product of the Dead Guy trying to break up with me shortly before he died. I went to church camp with 100 kids and came home with a kitten. Inbetween time, he had called me at camp to tell me that he was dating another woman and wanted to let me go. Now, I'm not proud of this, but I hung on instead. Because I also know that in his alcoholic sickness, he wanted to be with someone who didn't know. Someone who still believed in him, someone who didn't remember the past hurts. He wanted to start over. At the bitter end, he believed that if he got involved with someone who didn't know the past, that maybe, just maybe he might be able to pull it off.

And I loved him anyway, because for some reason, I still knew that he loved me. And he did. That's apparent from the last conversation we ever had. Very apparent. I promised him that I would never leave him and I didn't. Not until he left me. And that's important to me. Because until the end, I DID love him and I DID hang in there, no matter the hurt he incurred. For some reason, that was very, very important to me. And I'm not sorry I did it. Sorry for the sickness in my head that ensued, but not sorry that I hung in there for a man that I dearly loved and cared about no matter what.

He came to visit me several times after his death. Once in my car two days after and several times through my cats. I know - that's fucked up and weird, but I believe it. He usually embodies Kiki, but tonight, he came through Dax. HIS cat. Because when I came home from camp, Dax became his cat. He played with him, he wrestled with him and he made him the playful and mischief instigating cat that he is. The Dead Guy was on lots of medication toward the end there - especially blood thinners. His dad would call me up when he'd get home and ask what I did to him and I'd simply say, "He was playing with the cat." Which was the truth and believe you me, they had fun doing it.

So when I was sobbing tonight, Dax looked at me and all I could see was Jason's eyes. I know that he loved me and I know that he tried his best. And so did I. And I so badly want more for me today. But if my cats tell me I'm on the verge of crazy, then I probably am. So, it's early bed for me tonight and coffee with my best friend in the morning. I don't know what else to do but walk through it. And walk through it, I will.