New Life

It takes all kinds of people to help me stay sane. One of the guys in this video - the one with the long gray beard was one of the key people that walked me through my early grief with The Dead Guy. We spent many an evening together. And I love him more than I can say. I was terrified of him when I met him. He's kind of a scary looking dude. Pair that up with the antique Indian Motorcycle he pulled up on and I pretty much crawled into the corner. Turns out, he was one of the ones that was best equipped to pull me out and make me start talking.

http://www.kdlt.com/news/0730n2.html

I'm so happy that he's finally at peace. And I'm happy to report that I spent many a Saturday up there last fall, feeding the grouchy, dirty men that cleaned up the resort. I wanted to run the power tools, but turns out, I was just there to cook. Hrmph.

Pinkie is in the psychotel. She's been sober for over 20 years. And it scares me. She decided about two weeks ago that her anti-depressant medication made her "numb." So she made the oh-so-on-the-spur-of-the-moment-I-can't-do-this-anymore decision that she should stop taking it. Last Sunday when I saw her, she was not good. Not good at all. She was demonstrating all the horrible symptoms of psychiatry-is-the-devil and she scared me. I have only been in recovery for two and a half years. I made the executive decision when I got sober to let my psychiatrist run the show of my medications. It was a hard sell. I wanted to believe that if I stopped drinking, everything would be butterflies and sunshine, but my doctor knew better. I was sick long before I started drinking and he told me in no uncertain terms that I was not in charge of decisions when it came to my medication and my mental health.

I was bitter. Oh, so bitter. But I accepted it. My psychiatrist kept me alive when all I wanted to do was die during my drinking days. He knew I was drinking, but he didn't know how much. He knew it was a problem, but he also knew that I wouldn't do anything about it until I made the decision to stop. I could have very easily died under his watch, but I didn't. And when I showed up sober for an appointment and confessed to reality, he took notice. And read me my not-so-rights. And I agreed. Because I was so deluded and sick for so long, there was no going back and pretending.

I know today that I no longer belong in the category of mentally ill. I clung to it for years, hoping against hope that therapy and drugs would cure me of my addiction, but when it came down to causes and conditions, quitting drinking was the only way I was ever going to make progress.

So it frightens me that someone I look up to and respect ends up inpatient in the crazy hospital at twenty years sober. All because she decided to take matters into her own hands. She was nuts when I spoke to her. I told her how hard it was for me to even decrease my anti-depressants, how I panicked so much that I couldn't be at work and that I had to have someone come sit with me for hours at a time just so I could stay in my own skin. And that it was PLANNED. That the people who knew and loved me were aware of what I was trying to do and supported me and walked me through the withdrawl of a medication that helped me stay alive, but was slowly killing my soul. I knew I had to do it, but it was hard. Oh, it was hard. I wish I never would have started taking anti-depressants, but I did. And going off of them was worse than quitting drinking. But I did. And I had the support of everyone who loved me.

But she made the decision on her own. Without medical advice. And without consulting those who loved her. And she went nuts. And when I tried talking to her about my experience, all I got was a brick wall. She wanted to believe she was unique. That her experience was so difficult to overcome that she'd rather die. And I shut down and stopped talking. I SO wish that was not my pattern. But I couldn't help her and she ended up at the psychotel. A place that I'm not willing to subject myself to as a visitor. I can't be helpful to someone who isn't capable of listening. I want to be. And it makes me sad, but I just can't.

I don't even want to consider the idea that 20 years from now, I might snap and end up back at square one. I know I don't have to, but this experience has taught me that I might not ever escape the demons that I lived with for so long. And that is not a pleasant thought.

We spent about four hours being "served' by Thing One and Thing Two. Did you know you could have lobster with butter, spinach and artichoke dip, hot fudge sundaes and banana splits while at the beach? We had a regular restaurant there! I chose the six person appetizer plate with mozzarella sticks, buffalo wings, nachos and chicken fingers. Plus a root beer float. All made of sand. Good, yummy sand. Thing Two was the master of sand desserts, but really just needed a nap.

It's a Saturday morning. What better thing to do than watch a triathalon? One of my friends has been training for one for quite some time but she wasn't quite ready to take the plunge. (Get it? I AM SO FUNNY!) Instead, we decided to go watch. It was at our favorite lake anyway.It was a very small one - just over 50 participants - only six of which were women! Miss M will have little competition around here, that's for sure.She was mostly interested in watching the transitions from swim to bike to run. So we stayed at the staging area most of the time for that purpose. There were some really serious competitors, but there were also people out there just to have fun and see if they could finish. That will be her goal - to finish, so we were glad to see those types of people participating as well.

Here's what we learned from the fasties:
They all wore wetsuits and peeled off to dry clothes while they ran from the beach to the bike. They did NOT wear socks with either their biking or running shoes. Their biking shoes were attached to the bike, already clipped in and they somehow got their feet in while peddling away. They didn't stop for water and they did NOT sit down to take off their wetsuits or put on their running shoes. And the first three men in were all wearing red shoes. I'm convinced their success had to do with these last two facts. The non-sitting and the red shoes.

Here's what we learned from everyone else:
You need a towel spread on the ground that houses your shoes, water, socks and goggles. Everyone had a bucket of water to wash the sand off their feet before they put on their shoes. When you transition from swim to bike? Sunglasses, then helmet, then shoes. Seriously. Everyone did it that way. I kind of half expected people to just dump their bike and run at the next transition, but nothing doing. They were all very careful to park them at their station.

All in all, it was a great morning. I feel terribly athletic and incredibly tired. It's exhausting, standing around watching people exercise. I can't wait until Miss M actually does one. I get to be her groupie. Her number one fan and her best cheering section. I love that role.

There's no picture today. There doesn't need to be. Because my feet? Are basically happy most all the time. Especially because they get to go dancing! Last night, Dancing Queen and I were introduced to a new, slightly older gentleman that is thinking about coming to swing dance lessons next week. We're both pretty friendly women, so we asked him to join us at our table and probably interrogated him a little too much, but hey! We need more dancers, so we want him to feel welcome. And then he said it. IT. The phrase that I am/was/could be guilty of uttering just a few too many times in the last four months of learning to dance. "But I'm really shy." And Dancing Queen laughed, pointed to me and said, "Well. We fixed HER. I'm pretty sure we can fix YOU, too." And then I told him how awful it was for me in the beginning. Trying so hard to feel brave and friendly and talk to strangers, much less ASK THEM TO DANCE and then LET THEM TOUCH ME. And that now? Four months later? It's second nature. And to hang in there and it would get better. He didn't seem to believe me, but that's okay. If he sticks around, he'll get that sense of ease that I enjoy now, too.

I never thought I'd feel comfortable doing any of this dancing stuff. This guy taught me the basics in his living room - out of the public eye. I would have been perfectly happy to continue the living room dancing and never going out. But nothing doing. We started going country dancing on the weekends. Me, mostly sitting unless he asked me to dance. Feeling awkward and horrid and alone. And occasionally, I'd work up enough courage to ask someone else to dance. Then promptly sit down and spend the next 45 minutes trying to work up enough courage to ask someone else. It was awful.

About a month into this adventure, we took a trip to Omaha and I got to meet a whole bunch of other dancers at Jitterbugs Night Out. Again - the shyness was horrible, but at that venue, everyone asks everyone else to dance, so I got to dance quite a bit even though I did none of the asking. I still felt awkward and new. I didn't realize that the real dancers? They don't care and they're thrilled to have new people join them.

Then I took some Lindy Hop lessons from this guy. And found out that I'm not a horrible dancer, and in fact, I'm pretty okay and I learn super fast! And for some reason, that finally gave me the confidence to start exploring the dance scene a little more. I quit going country dancing because frankly? The bar is icky and the drunk people make me uncomfortable. The dancers weren't drunk, but being in that environment just - well - I didn't like it. So there. And then salsa and swing dance lessons started up at another bar across town that I don't mind. There's rarely super drunk people there when we're there. I like that.

Then I got SUPER BRAVE and went to Lindy in the Park in Omaha on my way home from Des Moines. ALL BY MYSELF. And this woman was kind enough to meet me there and talk me through the one way streets once I got off the interstate. Plus, she let me sit with her. I still need a little hand holding. But I think that event was the turning point for me. I can do it! I can ask people to dance. I can ask STRANGERS to dance. Strangers who are incredible dancers! Hell, I danced in front of 20,000 people at Jazzfest last weekend. That's a far cry from the living room.

I'm still shy in some situations, but I had no idea that dancing would change the way that I look at myself in relation to other people. That I can be the one that's friendly and welcoming and I don't have to wait for someone to make ME feel comfortable. That I'm a desirable person to be around. (!) Really. People like me. (Don't think this is not a huge revelation. Because it is.) And that I can indeed access the woman that I used to be and not have to get drunk to be her.

I think about all the things that I've gone through since Jason died. The year of drinking in the closet, my first year in recovery where I was terrified most of the time, rarely doing anything social unless my sponsor dragged me along and promised to sit next to me and not let strangers talk to me. The second year of recovery during which I clung to my wider circle of friends in the program, feeling the most secure at the club or at a fellowship event surrounded by people I knew. Now this year? I'm branching out and even though it was horribly uncomfortable in the beginning? I'm starting to feel more like myself. Like I used to. Confident. Outgoing. Caring. Not as wrapped up in how I look or appear. I'm not "there" yet, but dancing has helped me turn a corner. One that I didn't even know was there to be turned.

And just to prove that dancing is a sickness, I'm going on vacation in Northern Minnesota in a couple weeks and darned if I didn't spend four hours yesterday googling swing dancing in the Brainerd Lakes Area. And I FOUND IT. AND I'M TOTALLY GOING. They're everywhere. And I don't have to be scared anymore. So there.

We really DO beam when we're happy!

http://www.livescience.com/health/090722-body-glow.html

I've been pondering death again lately. Go figure, huh? That's pretty par for the course around here. Sometimes I get a really nice respite from my grief and then something will happen that plows me right back into the ground. Then I think I should just stay there and you all should come plant flowers on top of me to keep me buried so I don't have to struggle back up just to fall down again. (I despise Easter Lilies by the way. Just so you know.) But most of the time, I understand that this is all part of the process of moving on. The dark times come fewer and farther inbetween and they don't last as long. In the beginning, whenever something ick would happen in my life, I'd grieve that the Dead Guy wasn't there to hold my hand and walk me through it. It's kind of nice to have someone who isn't afraid to trudge through the storm with you, isn't it? Now I miss him the most when something really incredible or serendipitous happens. Weird, huh? I get so very sad that he's not here to see the joy in my eyes. Because that really was something he cherished - when I was on top of the world ecstatic, my eyes would light up and I'd turn to him in wonder that this (whatever this was) was happening. And to US! Those are the moments when he'd rush to envelop me in bone-crushing hugs and promises that everything was going to be just fine as long as I kept smiling from my eyes. I think he said it mostly to convince himself, but that's neither here nor there today.

I've had some really incredible things happen to me in the last few weeks. Aside from the job change that makes me want to puke and the trip to Des Moines that I could hardly pull a smile out of my ass for, there have been other, perhaps smaller - but more significant, things happen that make my eyeballs light up and my head start to spin with creative thought. And it makes me wish that he knew I was content. You can tell me all you want that he does INDEED know. But it's not the same. It's just not. He could also read the fear in my excitement of something new and would dole out those soul-filling hugs that smashed it.

And I feel like I'm stuck here, trying to hug myself into that joy. But it doesn't quite work that way. And then THAT becomes something to be sad about. I know. I'm a piece of work. But then again, aren't we all?

This grief thing is tricky. It sneaks up on me - even on a good day. Why would that be? Can't it just leave me alone while I'm forgetting about it for the moment? Yesterday, I was laughing and talking to a friend as I walked into the club. And I heard from the kitchen, "Kate's here!" As I turned the corner I said, "How do you know?" The reply? "I could hear your laugh. I could listen to it all day long." And I promptly burst into tears. (Did I mention I'm a fucking piece of work?) Because how incredible is it to be known for your laugh when all you used to do is sit in the corner and cry?

It's all a matter of balancing out the extremes. You can remind me how last week, I complained that he didn't let me talk or have an opinion or that a year ago, I was entrenched in sorting out what exactly emotional abuse looked like in our relationship. Going back to last December, you'll find a glowing report of a man who lived on a pedastal for a long, long time in my eyes. The longer I do this thing, the more I come to understand that he was just a human being with flaws just like mine and I loved him and alternately hated him while he was alive AND after he was gone. Because I figured if I loved him enough, then he wasn't really dead. And if I hated him enough, it wouldn't hurt anymore. Funny how it doesn't work that way.

I fully admit that I am narcissistic. I want to be the center of attention all the time. Wed that to my propensity for co-dependency, and I'm one sick woman. "It's all about me. Wait. It's all about HIM. Wait. It's all about me!" Yeah. It wages war in my head. If I do "this" then he'll love me. If I do "that" then he will never leave me. If I'm "good enough" then he'll want me forever. Yeah. That. It's sick and twisted and it's what I beat down with the crazy stick on a daily basis. But we've reached the last straw in our household.

Wanda came to visit.

Oh wait. She didn't come to visit. She LIVES HERE now.What is it with gay men and their women? I love Gay Boyfriend. I am not his Fag Hag (You get brownie points for knowing what that is), but he is my friend. And when Wanda came to our house, I had a fit. Wanda laid under the dining room table for several weeks; her legs sticking out with no other body part accessible. I freaked out every time I came upstairs. For someone that's seen her girlfriend try to kill herself and find her twitching on the floor, the legs from under the table were a little much. PTSD, anyone? Not happy.But then he finally dressed her. I do not LIKE Wanda. I do not want her to wear my clothes. And I'm horribly disgusted that Gay Boyfriend buys her jewelry and continues to complain about my lack of said jewelry whenever I have occasion to dress up. I told him if he bought her something nice and didn't buy something for me, I would divorce him. He didn't seem to care for that threat.... Hrmph. I didn't really understand Wanda until we went to his gay friend's house on the way home from the beach. They have TWO mannequins. This one, which I tried to emulate. They don't see Wanda as a threat to me. But damnit! This is a one woman household. And I reign supreme. And don't you forget it. Gay Boyfriend has been put on notice. There will be no jewelry for Wanda until mine appears.

Oh! Oh! Oh!

I took a super duper long nap this afternoon so I could go to Jazzfest and see Keb 'Mo. It was AWESOME. Miss M and I sat with the swing dancers. I did a little bit of dancing. Not as much as I would have liked, but enough to satisfy me for the evening. Of course, we didn't stay for the last band, but it was so much fun! And now I'm going to go to bed.

I'm so excited to be living my life right now, I can't even tell you how much.

If you've been following for any amount of time, you know I've not been feeling the best. I had some more blood work done today and my meningitis has not abated. Again, I'm not catching. It's just the exhaustion and the inability to recover if I keep running myself into the ground that's keeping me stuck.

I'm going to the hospital tonight for an IV for fluids and pain, and Gay Boyfriend is accompanying me to drive me home when all is said and done. I didn't want it to come to this. I tried so very hard to keep it under control by getting enough sleep, going only to work and meetings if I had to. But my doctor is very wary of it continuing.

I hate it. I hate being sick. And I hate feeling this vulnerable. I know it will pass. And I KNOW I will get better, but tonight, I feel like this is giving up the fight. I also know that if I don't go, I'll end up hospitalized and that's worse. So much worse.

Listen to this!

The blood of one man, when it took you, was hard to overcome, but what could you do about blood that comes from who knows where, and stops flowing who knows where? It was not the blood of a single man, but torrents of the blood of generations of human beings that streamed all over the High Plateau, the blood of young men and old men, for years and for centuries.
Ismail Kadare - "Broken April"

Tell me that's not incredible writing. And that's not the book jacket. That's just a paragraph in the middle of the page! Occasionally, the good doctor gets a bee in his bonnet and starts ordering books. Out of the blue, we'll get like 12 packages from Fed Ex. Books. All from the same author. And a couple months later? Six more - by someone else. This one's a winner. He considers himself to be enhancing my education by making me (No shit. I get reading hours scheduled for me.) read the things he thinks I need to know about the world. There's always political articles on my keyboard in the morning for me to digest. He even spent an hour one day reading poetry to me in Pushtoon. He'd look up at me with tears in his eyes and say, "Isn't that just beautiful?" and it was. Even though I had no clue what it meant, it was indeed breathtaking. I started reading Broken April a couple weeks ago when my co-worker was gone. It's one of those books that you have to concentrate on with a minimum of distraction. The writing is just so... Just so. You know?

I pulled it out again today after she left for the afternoon. It's all about the Albanian hills between the wars and the blood-money culture that ran their society for years and years. Holy. I've been getting my dose of different cultures/customs/laws lately. And it's all related to my job. Go figure. I work for a man who says, "Revenge first. Justice second." The good doctor is kind of the "grandfather" figure of his cultural community around here. People come to him for advice, to settle disputes, for direction in life, to name their kids. It's just how it is. He is revered by many from his home country as an elder. And there's been some domestic violence lately that he has stepped in to help dismantle. This woman may have gotten married off to a stranger of her parent's choosing back home, but the good doctor is exacting and swift here in the United States. You don't hurt a woman. Revenge first. Justice second. And that is exactly how it has played out.

I don't agree with alot of his customs when it comes to women. And if you've been reading for any amount of time, you know that he and I have had some serious words about it. Look at what is on her marriage certificate! Lines 1-4 are all where it happened and whose involved. Line 5 (LINE FIVE) asks if she's a virgin. Um? Who has to check on that? Lines 7-11 indentify the parents, because frankly? This is a legal contract of sale. Yes. Sale. Because Lines 12-17 outline her dowry - whether it is to come through money, property, on demand, or over time AS THE BRIDE SUFFICES. She was sold for 150,000 rupees which translates into 1,830.18 USD. Now here's where it all gets tricky for me. I mean, I do not have to like all this dowry and sale crap, but the rights? That comes next.

Line 18: Whether, the husband has delegated right to divorce, to his wife. Answer: No.
Line 19: If any restriction is imposed on husband's right to divorce? Answer: No.

He can leave her at any time but she doesn't have the right to leave him. It's in the contract. And that's what makes it so tough for women in her situation to get free of things like domestic violence. Her family entered a legal contract with her husband that she is not free to revoke. Oh, the lawyers and faxes back and forth to the homeland. Because technically, neither of them are citizens of the United States. The tapes I had to listen to while he was translating copy of her husband beating her and calling her horrible names? That was a whole day of torture. I kept telling him I couldn't handle it and he kept saying it was building character. Until I ran into the bathroom in tears because I couldn't take it anymore. Then he finally quit.

Well, he won. She's free, she's got her son with her and the divorce will be final quite quickly. And even though she's still hurting, she is safe. Of course, she thinks she has wronged society as a whole because she "failed" in her marriage, but that's where good direction and love from the women in this community come in.

Fast forward to this afternoon. South Dakota has a fantastic number of Hutterite communities. And today, we saw a young woman with a horrible burn from such a community. The good doctor recognizes people of like mind, and in the waiting room, there progressed conversation that at once fascinated and burned my soul. The young girl sat demurely (and I only say that because I am not a demure girl) while listening to her father extole her virtues as a would-be wife. She's freaking 13. And the good doctor says, "Who gets to decide who she marries?" Because he truly is interested. And the father puffs up his chest (Seriously. I did not imagine this.) and says, "I decide. The father decides."

I was horrified. Kind of. I'm not sure how I felt. It's what works for them. I'm largely against missionary work. I figure if a societies' ways works for them, then so be it. Who are "we" to undo it. But that poor little girl. I wanted to swoop her up and cuddle her and tell her that she need not be subjected to a marriage with someone she doesn't love. But nothing doing. That's how they live.

Is that wrong of me? Is it? I wonder. I observe what goes on in the world. Sometimes I fight it when I'm horribly offended by it, but this? It works for them. Arranged marriages? Hell. I don't know. I do know that the good doctor's marriage was arranged and today, he calls his wife his best friend. But only because he chose to work at it. Not everyone does that.

I'm completely conflicted by it all. And it started with me reading. Reading an incredibly written book that I will finish tomorrow.

Last night as we ended the meeting, I was looking around the room at all these people in recovery and was awestruck. The man on my right is a convicted felon. The man on my left is listed on the national gang registry as a violent criminal. Across the table is a woman who recently got her children back from social services. Alot of people stumble into recovery because of legal problems. Other people like me come in because they lose themselves in some dark hole that they can't crawl out of. And then we reinvent our lives into something wonderful. It gives new meaning to the word rehabilitation.

My friend Carrie sent me a package this week! It was full of memories. A sweatshirt from our high school days and postcards from our friends that went to a high school "reunion" of sorts last month that I was not able to attend. What a treat! Thanks, guys!

Last night, I had dinner with Dancing Queen before Salsa lessons. She's a total salt of the earth kind of gal and I am quite fond of her. We come from very dichotomous backgrounds, but that doesn't seem to matter for us. I've got some life experience and way too much stupid education behind me. She's got some plain old common sense that she could probably stand to clock me over the head with on any given day. When we visit, we've discovered that despite these differences, there's more and more common ground that we tread on in tandem.

I was rehashing my trials on match.com from last winter for her and we were having a good laugh over it. (Remember that good readers? Holy. What a disaster. The Wild Monkey Sex with Mr. Internet vs. 1.0 was about the only good thing that came out of that. And can you believe he called me last week and I quote, "Wanna have sex?" What?! Good Lord. And Malaise? If you still read, I want you to know that I laugh whenever I think of the phrase "drop trou.") I mean seriously. I do not put my profile out there to get emails saying, "Send me a picture of your boobs before we meet." Um. Nowayinfuckinghellyoucreeptasticweirdo. And then Dancing Queen and I started talking about how to meet decent men. And I said, "I'm pretty sure we're not going to meet the men of our dreams by taking dance lessons in a gay bar with heterosexual (and sometimes we're not sure) guys who are not interested in us." And she said, "Oh fine. Burst my bubble, why don't you." And then we laughed. I mean, it's the truth. Right? And you can laugh about it or cry. It really is a choice. You know I've done the match.com thing. In fact, I still have a profile up there that I never took down, which I revisit every once in awhile. Recently, I've asked a very good blog friend to write a new profile for me just to see what happens, but really? If someone's been on there for more than six months? You probably don't want them anyway. (Notice that I'm in that same category. Hahaha!) So where do you go and what do you do? I sure as hell don't know. I figure I just keep living my life the way that I want to and Prince Charming will either show up or he won't.

I'm more okay with being alone today than I have ever been, I think. Sure, I still struggle late at night. I think I've always struggled late at night. Who doesn't? Everything seems darker then - inside and outside of my soul. I'm seriously lonely. I admit that. And this girl likes to cuddle. But - and I have said this before - I don't think two people will ever be enough for one another until they are perfectly content being alone. Otherwise, you're just using each other to fill a hole that only God can fill. At least in my world, that's who fills it. And you can fill that hole with all kinds of things, but nothing ever truly fits. No man will ever complete me. I'm complete as I am. But he sure as hell better enhance my life. And pedantic sex partners need not apply. This girl likes a throw down every once in awhile. And I know some of you do, too. Secret keepers. Hrmph.

I don't often talk much more about recovery on my blog other than to say I was a horrible drunk and I'm not anymore. But today, that doesn't suffice. I've been having a whole lot of trouble with my head lately, but the meeting I went to tonight put some things in perspective. I think that's why people say meetings are so important. They take my crazies and transform them. This quote is from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. I've heard this read hundreds of times, but it's when the chips are down and I'm feeling really out of control that something usually hits me - and hard. And the people at World Services in New York might find me and blast me for quoting it, but here it is. It's on page 417 if you're interested. (Is that enough of a bibliography? Probably not, but whatever. I try. I really do.)

When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing, or situation - some fact of my life - unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God's world by mistake. Until I could accept my alcoholism, I could not stay sober; unless I accept life completely on life's terms, I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.

I didn't like any of these words for a long, long time. It seemed like it made everything my fault. Any unhappiness was of my own making. Well? It is. I've come to understand that. Whenever I try to run the show, and things don't go the way I want and I am not pleased? It's because my expectations were out of line. How many times did I hear in treatment, "It's not all about you, Kate." What? Sometimes I still don't get that. Sure, I laugh that Iowa's interstates didn't take my propensity for Diet Coke into consideration. But that's just a joke that I make to remind myself that the world does not, indeed! Revolve around me. And if I want to be unhappy? I can be. If I want to be happy? That's my choice.

But the thing I struggle with the most? Is the idea that nothing happens in God's world by mistake. (If you don't want to hear about God, now's your time to escape/hit delete/mark as read/un"friend"me/ whatever. Just go away. I'm not interested.) We don't live in God's world. My God doesn't want me to be unhappy or confused or sad. My God is sad when I'm sad. My God is super sad when I'm crazy. My God heaps compassion on me when I'm fucked up. Because I was not created to be that way. But I get that way because we live in a world where God is not paramount. And we are fucked up human beings trying the best we can with our free will.

I don't like where my head has been lately. I'm discontent. I'm sad. I'm confused. But I know that somewhere along the line, if I keep going to meetings, and keep praying to my God who doesn't like it when I feel this way, it will pass. I hate where my head goes sometimes. Self pity? Absolutely. It was all I could do to pull happiness and cheer out of my ass all weekend with my sister in law. Don't get me wrong. I am ecstatic about this baby. But I'm also horribly jealous. And to not acknowledge that is death for me. I can say it to the right people and get it out of my system before it becomes toxic and kills me and any relationship I have with my family. I don't WANT to be that way. So I say it to a trusted friend who will understand that I don't mean it in a bad way, just that I'm feeling sorry for myself and that I'll put it under wraps and dig deep for the real Kate that wants to be happy for them. Is that selfish? Sure. But to deny it is to let it grow. And damned if I need sick thoughts to grow in my head today.

Things have been really ick at work lately. That's what all the morning throwing up has been about. I will not say what's been going on, because the longer I blog, the more I understand that I will be found by just the same people I don't want to be found by. But they don't pay me enough to be this anxious. Someone's getting downsized and it's not me, but I have guilt that it's not me. My co-worker is one of my most trusted confidants. I'm not sure I would have made it in early sobriety without her. And I'm sick over it. My anxiety always presents itself in physical symptoms. I could wish otherwise, but it is what it is. When I'm upset, I throw up.

I tell myself that everything is as it is supposed to be. That at every corner, there is opportunity. But I can't get myself to believe it. There is a huge difference in believing and trusting. I don't trust that my God knows what He's doing. And that's where the crazies start to take over. This God that got me sober? Is He not big enough to walk me through whatever hurt and anxiety I have today? Of course he is. But when I'm lying in bed and can't sleep? When I'm facing the porcelain God, hot faced and sweaty? I don't remember that. And it sucks. I wish I could stay in that safe and content space all the time. But that's not reality either.

I don't know what I'm trying to say other than I'm struggling. And in that struggling, I know that it will be for the best. I learn the most when I'm faced with a challenge. I don't like it. Not one bit. I can't tell you the number of times I've sat in the office at Tallgrass and sobbed, "I know I'm supposed to be learning something from this, I just don't know what it is yet." And that's the truth. I don't know what I'm supposed to be learning and I hate the process, but for God's sake, it better be worth it.

I went to Des Moines this weekend for my sister in law's baby shower. I think she's an amazing woman and I love my little brother with a passion. I think they're going to be awesome parents. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Baby Z will be here any day now... I can't wait to be the Fabulous Dancing Auntie.

It's a trick to get our whole family in one place at a time, but we were all there. And since my brother and sister are super into yoga and I used to be at one time, we went to Yoga in the Park. It was incredible. My sister is a Registered Yoga Teacher in Anusara Yoga. I've always done Vinyasa, so it was fun for us to go to a class where there was no agenda.There were over 200 people there. I freaked out just a little bit when my brother told me there's always a mob, but he kept saying it wouldn't feel like it.

I'd just like to point out that there's a 40 mile stretch after you get on I480 to connect with I80 from Sioux Falls to Des Moines where there is no Diet Coke. No where to stop for Diet Coke.

And? That if it says there's a rest stop? It ought not to be 12 miles from the interstate. When you gotta go. You gotta go. I'm of the immediate emergency type. Don't people know that? Doesn't the world and it's interstates revolve around me?

And for the speculation on the earlier post. Good God, no. It's just my medicine and lack of sleep. That, or the swine flu. In which case, I'm going to infect my entire family including baby to be with it. AND I get to go to Lindy in the Park on Sunday in Omaha. So there.

I'm pretty sure that in the whole scheme of health and wellness, one should not be waking up and throwing up every morning for a week. I gave that up when I quit drinking. Hello?!

You know those people in your life that you can just talk and talk and talk and talk to? And then it's much later than you thought it was and you don't want to go, but you have to? Where the topics just fly by and you don't know how you got on one or the other, but in the end, it doesn't matter? I've missed that in my life. I hesitate sometimes and I don't have the words sometimes, but with Captain Crab? It just comes. And that's a gift. Talking to him is like writing my blog. What I think comes out my mouth and it doesn't get judged.

People may call us bloggers narcissistic, but I don't care. I still posit that we're the most awesome people I know. Because tonight? My mind is quiet. For the first time in a long, long time.

You know I worked for the church for 10 years, right? As an upstanding, knowledgeable Bible scholar and educator? Capable of organizing massive youth trips funded by millions of dollars and hundreds of volunteers? Addressing congregations of over 2000 members on a regular basis? Teaching at seminaries? Speaking at the national level to groups of youth workers? Publishing curriculum with the most respected Christian publishing company in the United States? I was kind of a big deal. And I threw it all away to drink. Weird, huh? And had I, or any of the people I worked with, been more informed about alcoholism, I might not have gone as deep into my addiction and I might not have been asked to leave my job when I finally asked for help. And I might not have continued to live in the shame of my addiction well into my recovery, no matter how hard I tried to shake it. Could have beens and should have beens really don't belong in my life today, but hope for the future does.

Advocacy is a big deal to me. I used to do advocacy work all the time - for the kids that I worked with. I visited schools, juvenile justice institutions, community organizations, wherever I needed to go in order to get kids the kinds of services that they needed. Whether it was providing evidence in abuse cases, going to court for CHINA verdicts, speaking at health and wellness events, giving voice to youth concerns in a world that doesn't give women, much less children, a venue for understanding, petitioning community organizations to step up and provide food or shelter or counseling or whatever it was someone needed. And usually, the reason people weren't providing those services was because they either wouldn't or just simply couldn't see the need until it was pointed out. So, I pointed it out. I had a reputation for being kind of a bulldog. Because when it comes to kids, I will not back down. I lost some of that when I started drinking and since then, I have had to focus so much on my recovery that I don't have the confidence at the present moment to stare down the need and then start squawking. I'll get it back. Of that, I am certain. My passions run deep. I didn't lose everything in my battle with alcohol. Mostly just time.

So when it comes to advocacy, I know what I'm doing. Except when I'm asked to do something about educating the community about alcoholism. That's a new one. I'm very open about my addiction. I don't pretend that it didn't happen and I'm very candid about what indeed, did happen. It was sordid and ugly and some would call it embarassing, but I'm not ashamed of it. I know that my story is not any worse or any better than anyone else's. It's just the facts. When I talk at a meeting about drinking in my closet, wondering how and when I was going to be able to find the courage to end it all, we all start laughing. But normal people don't think that's funny. It was horrible, and now it's not. And I can only hope for it to improve as the days turn into weeks, months and years. It really is a miracle I'm alive today. And relatively happy. And sane.

I have recently come to find out that there have been people in the faith community watching my recovery. And they want me to start talking about it. Advocate for awareness. Train pastors and lay people about the signs and symptoms of addiction. Talk to youth groups about underage drinking; about loss and shame and guilt. My initial reaction to that email was rage. I rarely get angry. In fact, Carolyn tries to make me get angry all the time, but it's just not a comfortable feeling for me. It's too frightening. But I recognized that flash. That hot faced-how-dare-they-fucking-hypocrite-assholes flash. I mean, the church fired me. Not this particular one, but the church as a whole - like guilt by association? Plus, I felt like they were spying on me somehow. How do THEY know I got sober and stayed that way? Yeah, that's how irrational I got. And I'm still not ready to respond.

I laugh at myself sometimes about all this. I mean, once it was decided that I was no longer a candidate for the crazy hospital? I thought it would be a good idea to be a voice for NAMI, since technically I didn't fit the criteria for any of the psychiatric diagnoses they used to give me to explain away my alcoholism. I thought that speaking up for the mentally ill could be my new crusade, because let me tell you. When you're mentally not with it? You can't HANDLE things like bills and insurance and making day to day decisions. I remember telling the crazy hospital billing department one day, "I was inpatient at the psychotel and you want me to be able to handle all this insurance bullshit without completely losing my marbles?" She kind of agreed. But guess what? That's not my place. NAMI is the voice for the mentally ill and I never WAS mentally ill, I just masqueraded as someone who was in order to cover up my drinking. And now that someone wants me to be the voice for what's REALLY wrong with me? I shy away from it?All I know is that once I make up my mind one way or the other, there will be hell to pay. Either for me or for the advocacy of alcoholism.

Okay, so I'm slow on the breaking news, but this is pretty amazing. That serial killer they were searching for in the Carolinas? He was shot and killed in the little town where I USED TO LIVE. I'd like to think it was my vigilante ex-marine turned community college professor neighbor who sat outside my apartment with his shotgun the night after my purse got stolen, just so I'd feel safe. The same neighbor who asked where Jason had gone after he moved back to Sioux Falls and said, "Good." How is it that everyone else knew he was a hopeless cause and not me? Hrmph.

And in other news, I'm no germaphobe. I'll eat things off the ground (my kitchen floor is another story), but I cannot and will not ever be able to take a pill that fell into the litter box. If you don't know about Tiny Apartment, you wouldn't know why that is a possibility, but I spilled a whole bottle in there this morning. There will be some explaining to do at the pharmacy.

The devil is in the details...

I have bad news. When I got to work this morning, the good doctor took one look at me and ordered a blood test. I have not been well. I'm tired and I'm worn and I've been holding onto the shred of health that tells me if I just get enough sleep, I'll figure it out. Well, suffice it to say that one blood test and a lumbar puncture (which hurts like fucking hell) later, my viral meningitis? It's back. With a vengeance. I do not need to be hospitalized. (Unless I get stupid and do too much.) And I am not catching. I'm just exhausted. Which means that I can go to work, but I have to make my world as small as possible for a little while. Work. Home. Bed. Work. Home. Bed. And that is boring and it's not pleasant, but it's reality. I can't go to meetings. I can't go dancing. And I most certainly cannot do anything that wears me out. I have no appetite. And I have no drive. I'm just aching and tired. My head pounds and my back wants so much to be caressed. Books do not hold my attention either. My saving grace and escape in literature is no longer working.

I have to take morphine for the pain, which scares the living crap out of me. But I've been assured by my doctor that he will not allow me to take it irresponsibly. It frightens me. Very much. And I'm scared of being this sick once again. It was awful last time and if I can only stay out of the hospital, I'll consider it a success.

Oh internet! I played all day in the garden. That makes my heart happy. Here's the big picture.And here's the tour. This is the butternut squash that's growing leaps and bounds. It had some sort of blight so Cowgirl, who knows all things living, sprinkled some funny dust on it and now it's just fine. Oregano and my toes. I didn't realize it would spread like that. I thought it would grow "up" not "out." There's a few spacing issues which will be rectified in the fall in preparation for next year.

(This is what greeted us right after dinner)
The sinkhole in my heart was repaired by four hours of ultimate frisbee out at Tallgrass with the pond as a hazard. I ended up in there more than once - soaking wet and laughing so hard I was crying. Then onto the beanbag championships. My new nickname is Knockers. I may or may not have been wearing an inappropriate bra for such damp athletic activities. I'm a complete mud covered mess and I love it. None of these people care what I look like. They just like my heart. What kind of gift is THAT?

Hot dogs on the grill, a walk through the trees, cuddling up under a blanket with Symphony Date to watch the fireworks? I can't imagine a better way to have spent my holiday. With a bunch of freak pyromaniac sober alcoholics. Who know what it's like to be real.

I know. All I seem to bring you is gloom and doom lately. I promise to work on that. But until then, here's the latest installment of thing that make me cry.

The Dead Guy's dad called me last night. He and I remained in frequent contact for about a year after he died. And he was the first to congratulate me on my year of sobriety two years later. He has always treated me like a daughter and I do love the man. However, the last couple of times I've talked to him, he's been largely inebriated. I know he's lonely and I know he's had a rough go of it. His wife died about a year before The Dead Guy did, so he's not had it easy. His loss eclipses mine in a way that I can't even fathom. It just makes me so very sad that he too, seems to have succumbed to the desire to make it all go away.

He went on and on last night about what a great daughter in law I would have been and how he missed the grandchildren he would never have from me and how I was welcome to come to the big 4th of July family reunion they have every year if I wanted. And I'm sorry, but hello? Those kinds of things make me cry. Of COURSE I wanted to be his daughter in law and of COURSE I wanted to have children and of COURSE I wanted to be a part of the family that reminded me always of My Big Fat Greek Wedding. And mostly, I've accepted that none of those things happened and I'm trying to get on with life. But to have him bring them up? Crushed my soul just a little bit.

And then he started in on the "Why aren't you married yet?" and "What's wrong with you? Don't you want to have kids?" Which is when I really lost it. Because frankly? I don't fucking know. And I know he was drunk and I know that he didn't mean it like that. But goddamnit, it hurts. And I have a headache from crying so much and mostly, I just want to curl up in a ball and forget the world for the day, but I'm going to go do what I had planned to do and if I cry some more later, then so be it. Fuck these stupid holidays. They bring out the crazy in all of us, apparently.

Because everyone who has had almost $1000 dollars worth of dental work should go commune with the chickens.