There is a Solution...and I’m Not It

The 9th Step Promises

1. If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through.

2. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness.

3. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.

4. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.

5. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.

6. That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear.

7. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows.

8. Self-seeking will slip away.

9. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change.

10. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us.

11. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us.

12. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves

Are these extravagant promises? We think not. They are being fulfilled among us - sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them.

Alcoholics Anonymous p83-84

The reason a recovering alcoholic isn’t ready to pursue a relationship - and shouldn’t place one’s self in a position where that ball is set rolling (flirting, dating, sexting, sex, etc) - is because it takes long, hard work to be restored to sanity. If you’re in a relationship already when entering recovery, your hope is that you can recover well enough to save it, or to be okay in it. But the relationship lasting after recovery is still not always the case, nor should it be. This is where having a good sponsor is important; we sick alcoholics and addicts don’t always know what’s best for us, and we can get ourselves into a whole lot of trouble when we do things our own way. The 12-steps-with-a-sponsor-approach isn’t the only way to recovery, but if we do go this route and work closely with a recovered human being with much more experience - who has been restored to sanity through working the steps - more is revealed to us. We are better equipped to make sane decisions, and less apt to hurt others and ourselves. 

I finally have a sponsor whom I call and to whom I talk (and as importantly, to whom I listen) every single day - and I actually want to do this. I believe that the words that come out of her mouth are true, which is important. And I’m actually being honest with her about my thoughts, feelings and actions - more honest than I’ve ever been. It feels hard as hell. My ego kicks and screams as it tries to claw and fight its way back to the surface to drag me under - but I know that rigorous honesty with another human being IS the first step in recovery. I’m SO SICK of my own insanity and the suffering it brings myself and others that I’m shining the brightest light I can on this bitch, so we can both look at its ugliness and see it for what it really is. The ego can only survive in darkness. 

Me? I’d rather dwell in the Sunlight of the Spirit, and enjoy the peace of those promises up there.

So, to get there - to recover, to be restored to sanity - I have to stop doing things my way. If there’s one thing I learned from re-reading my blog posts from 7 to 4 years ago, it’s that, yes, I am insane, and to say that I hurt people - some very deeply - is an understatement. And it’s my nasty little ego that not only prevents me from admitting my shortcomings to another human being, but also tries to stop me from following the direction of someone more sane than I. It can’t handle the idea that someone else might have the answer. It fights me being told what to do. 

Thankfully, when my now-sponsor (I’ll call her Tasha) makes suggestions, she only suggests to follow what’s in the book of Alcoholics Anonymous, which has helped millions of alcoholics already. This program of awareness is more powerful than my ego. I don’t even have to call it the hand of God - but I choose to. Tasha couples that with her own experience, strength and hope - and I can take it or leave it - but I’m choosing to take it.

Without a good sponsor, recovery doesn’t work for me. Margaret wasn’t even the best of sponsors, in hindsight, though I thought so at the time, placing her on the highest pedestal. Boy, did she fall hard. After her suicide, I completely stopped trusting any one in the program at all. I stopped recovering, soon after I had started. I kept pursuing relationships when I wasn’t sane - until I found a guy who was also crazy enough to stay with me. 

It lasted a little over four years. After fighting it in the beginning, I conceded and settled into it quite comfortably. Here was everything I ever wanted. He was a hard-working chef, we bought a house, he could help me raise my son, we had a daughter, his son (my son’s age) came to live with us, I continued my work with adults and children with disabilities until I started a photography business, we were engaged to be married, and I was photographing Love for a living. I felt like I had “made it”.

But I was still spiritually sick. I resorted to smoking weed, then vaping THC, addictively, to deal with the fact that on the outside, life looked amazing, but on the inside, I was suffering. Parenting was overwhelming. I had no clear view of my finances and didn’t know what I was doing in my business. I had too much work and too little money. I was asking - forcing - Bernard to watch the kids and clean and cook for me 60-70 hours a week so I could work any time he wasn’t working, on his days off, and late into every single night, at my computer, in addition to shooting weddings and sessions. I made no time for him, and also resented him for everything. He just wouldn’t do everything I wanted, and he did things I didn’t want. I had no peace, and I was neglecting everyone, drowning in a sewer of my own design. There was no God-consciousness, nor real consciousness of any kind.

When my then-sponsor (who never worked the steps with me, because I told her I had worked them already - plus I never followed her suggestions) - moved away, the search was on for real recovery. At this point, I was hoping to use the steps to save my relationship and my business, and to be the best mom I could be. I knew I was making a mess of things, but I was powerless on my own to stop it. I was even willing to quit smoking weed / THC and be sober again for real.

But, of course, I couldn’t do that on my own. I tried on my own, over and over, and failed every time. So, I went to Narcotics Anonymous, and a sponsor there helped me to quit smoking weed with a very thorough and intensive step 1. My sobriety date - clean and sober - is now April 6, 2019. 

As I embarked on step 2, I decided that, since AA was the program that started it all for me - I still haven’t had a drink in over 8 years - I wanted to go back to basics. I knew AA could restore me to sanity, because, as I began the process there before, I could feel it. I picked the oldest old-timer in the room at my home group, with 37 years of continuous sobriety, and asked her to take me through the remaining steps.

But, she got sick with pneumonia a couple weeks later, and we never had the chance to do the work before she was in the hospital, and of course, unavailable. I prayed for her recovery and I wanted to wait for her - but I needed help, now. So, I got a new sponsor. But her husband had a severe stroke while he was out on the coast on a job. She went out to the hospital and then the recovery facility to be with him, where they still are to this day. She got me through steps 2 and 3 over the phone, but she wanted to do them with me “officially” in person before having me move on to step 4, and we just never got the chance.

Months went by, and I continued to be a terrorist at home. Stagnant in the steps, I was powerless to change. I decided to just start step 4 on my own. It almost saved my relationship when he found my notebook and my personal moral inventory, where I admitted my resentments, and my selfishness, my dishonesty, and my fears, followed by my prayers asking God to remove these defects, show me what He would have me be, and give me the strength to be it. 

But the required change in me never occurred without taking steps 5-12. I was stuck repeating the same things over and over. The relationship did finally end; he had had enough. Never mind whatever his own character defects were - mine were glaring. I know the relationship wasn’t good for either of us from the beginning, in truth, but once we were in it...we were “in it to win it,” I had hoped. I had made the investment . . . but I lost it all.

Homeless with two kids two days before Christmas, with my sponsor still out of town, I started the search again. I found an old-timer who was willing to hear my inventory and do step 5 with me. I showed up at her house on the appointed day and time. I was desperate. But she didn’t answer the door, or the phone, after multiple attempts. 

A few days later, she texted me and told me she had had the flu, with no offer to reschedule. Screw that, I thought. I went ahead and did my 5th step with a friend, and 6 and 7 on my own. I shared my shortcomings, I was willing to have God take them away, and I asked Him to. But as I looked at step 8, I knew I needed to do this with a sponsor. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all. How can I trust myself to be thorough on my own? How do I know that I will take step 9 correctly, where the promises begin to come true? Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. How do I know I won’t still hurt people with my “amends”. I went to five AA meetings the next day, and I knew that, no - I can’t do this alone.

I decided to keep searching. On January 24, 2020, Tasha was the speaker at the local Friday night meeting. She seemed so familiar. Where did I know her from?

I related to nearly everything she shared. At the end of the meeting, I ran out to my car to get my big book. There it was, her name and number on the last blank page, along with the date and the name of the meeting where I’d met her. I rarely write people’s names and numbers in my big book. But I had met her a year prior at another meeting, down the mountain, where, after hearing her speak for only 3-5 minutes, I knew I wanted what she had: her awareness, sanity. She spoke recovery, truth. 

I had called her one time, and we talked about Thich Naht Hanh, Eckhart Tolle, and recovery. I later found out from my then-sponsor Shasta that Tasha was sponsoring Shasta’s husband Josh, and Tasha’s partner Destiny was Shasta’s sponsor. Serendipity!

I went back into the meeting room after seeing her name and number in my big book and showed it to her, and I asked her, “Is this you?”

“No....wait...yes...but that’s not how you spell my name.” She helped me fix it. I told her what I had been dealing with, that Shasta moved away and we never went through the steps, and that I kept getting sponsors with whom I didn’t get to go through the steps, but that that’s all I want - to take the steps with a sponsor and recover - and I could see in her eyes that she knew what I was going to ask before I did, and she said yes after I had only started, “Would you...”.

Call it fate, God - Tasha’s sponsoring me now, and I’m so, so grateful to have this opportunity to finally be restored to sanity. I’m not gonna lie - there is a guy I’m obsessed with, as usual - but I know not to trust my own thoughts right now. 

I started the steps over with Tasha because I want to be thorough. I’m back on a new step 4 inventory, looking more fearlessly and honestly than ever.

Because, as Tasha always says, truthfully...

“I’M the problem.”

But, there is a solution. I’m just not it!

Facepoop

I have to write. I'm exploding.

My Facebook posts are becoming increasingly insane, I suppose. I even ranted to everyone about how they should just let people post whatever they want to, let's just love each other, kum bah yah, and all that crap. But...people are telling me to see a therapist and write in a journal instead.

Okay. I get it.

I've been posting about the death of my son's dad (my former husband) and how it makes me feel. I mean, how it really makes me feel, with no sugar-coating. It makes me feel like the worst fucking human being on the planet, which you only understand if you know how I treated him, or if you've ever been a colossal dick to someone and had the power to help that person but chose not to and he or she fucking died. My own son said to me,

"If my dad were dying of thirst in the desert and you had a cup of water in your hand that could save him, you wouldn't give it to him. If my dad were hanging off a cliff and about to fall and you had the rope, you wouldn't give it to him! It's your fault he's dead! And sorry doesn't do ANYTHING!!!"

Fuckin' A. Smart, right, poor little six year-old. Goddamnit.

I haven't blogged about it as much as I've posted on Facebook about it, which is a huge mistake. It's making people feel VERY uncomfortable. 

I forget sometimes that this is why I have a blog under a name that isn't even really mine in the first place. Yes, I could simply journal and save this shit for myself, or I could see a therapist and save this shit for one other person, but goddamnit, I'm lonely, and I must wanna fucking share my shit. So what if I want lots of people to know what I'm going through? Narcissistic? Maybe. But aren't we all a bit of that?

My son and his cousin are home from school, sick in their room. My sister is home from work, sick in her room. And I'm just sitting here by the woodstove waiting until 10 am when the people at the damn health clinic are done with their damn meeting and can make appointments again, damnit. And I'm obsessing over all this stupid Facebook crap. But yeah, there are other things I could and should be doing, I guess.

Anyway, maybe Facebook isn't the place to express grief. Maybe Facebook isn't the place to express anything, period. One of my family members said she doesn't care for anyone's posts on Facebook, because who gives a shit about a post that's going out to 200 friends? It doesn't make her feel special, she says.

Eh. 

The Poetry Slam Emcee

[Disclaimer: This didn't occur during my current relationship; sometimes I jump around in the timeline to write about someone in my inventory. See the inventory on the left side of my blog for details.]

I was wearing a full suit of black, shiny leather, all the way down to the boots. It made sense to me at the time. Jazz, Poetry, Leather. They just seemed to go together.

I sang Johnny Mercer/Harold Arlen's "Blues in the Night" with the university Jazz Band, and I was damn sexy. I didn't really think of it that way at the time. I really didn't. I'm one of the most innocent people I know - or maybe I'm just the most naïve. At least, I used to be innocent, before all "this" happened. You know, the Fall. It's what this whole blog is about. How a sweet, innocent, straight-A student like me ends up in all leather singing a sexy blues tune with a jazz band. I wasn't really attractive growing up, so I still get surprised when I get asked out. Even after a performance like the one I put on that night.

He was black. I hadn't dated a black guy yet. Is it racist to feel like I've accomplished something? He was talented, charismatic, the host of the show - just the kind of guy I'm attracted to, and just the kind of guy who knows what to say to a girl. And I'm just the kind of girl to fall for a guy who knows just what to say to the kind of girl who's gonna fall for what he's gonna say.

He came up to me with a single white carnation in his hand. "Here. Great job tonight. I think I might have to ask you for your number. But first...what's yo' name?" It took him a second to get into the groove.

I laugh nervously any time this happens, and guys love it. They think they're so funny and attractive. Go me. "Adora...what's yours?" Tee hee.

I'm smiling and looking him right in the eyes. He bit his lip. Real smoov, dude. "Emmanuel."

My heart's racing, I can't lie. This is the nature of things. I'm not really that interested in anything except the feeling. I want more of it.

"Say, Adora, why don't you let me buy you something to eat? Then maybe I can ask you for your number."

"Sounds good to me." I was starving.

We went out to his car. It was in bad shape. He took me to IHOP. Meanwhile, I'm letting him lead the conversation, and I'm just responding. It's really not hard work at all.

He flirts with the waitress who seats us at a booth. He's making her laugh nervously, just like he did me. Wow, what a player.

IHOP had a special bacon menu at the time, and we both ordered from it, plus we both added extra bacon to our meals. We started getting into some meaningful conversation after we bonded over our bacon. I told him about my recovery from alcoholism, and he told me about his mom with mental disabilities. It was getting interesting now. I could see us becoming friends.

He thought he was going to shock me with what he said next. "I don't tell any body this...but for some reason I just feel like can tell you. So here goes, ready?" He took a sip of coffee and raised his eyebrows. I'm thinking AIDS.

"I'm a sex addict." Close enough. Shit, if he only knew.

"Hey, that's cool," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "No wonder we get along so well." It's true - addicts of whatever kind find each other kindred.

"But I want to change," he said. "Like you. Two years sober, that's so inspirational."

Should I tell him? Sure, why not. "Actually, Emmanuel, I'm a recovering sex addict, too."

"Really?! You?!"

(Told you, I'm so 'innocent', people just have no idea. But it's about powerlessness, not purposefulness.)

"Yeah, but I'm trying to change that, too. No sex til marriage. That's my new thing."

"Whoa, I wanna calm down, but....I don't think I could do that."

We kept talking for a little longer about it; he told me how many women he dates (and usually "does") a week. Between one and three (and now I didn't feel like such a slut). He told me how he goes to salsa dancing every weekend and picks up women without fail, every time. Even at the beach - he had sex with a random chick last week just hitting on her in the water. Did I believe it? Yeah. He wasn't bragging. He was remorseful, because most of them end up wanting relationships, and he just wants to do it once and move on to the next one.

We moved on to talk about the poetry slam/jazz concert, and I volunteered to start a facebook page for him. It sounded like a great plan - he wanted to expand to other colleges and universities in the area. I work in performing arts publicity, so I wanted to help. We exchanged numbers, he paid the bill, and he took me back to my car at the university.

"Adora, thank you," he said. "I really like you. You're one of the most amazing women I've ever met."

"Thanks," nervous laughter. "I'll send you an admin invite once I get the page set up." I grabbed my box of bacon pancake leftovers and got out. No kiss. Just a hug. Refreshing. "Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too!"

The next day was Saturday; I got the facebook page set up, and called him. It started off okay, but then he started talking about how he's never wanted anyone so badly in his life, and he wanted to see me again. I told him no - let's just be friends. I don't know where my power came from all of a sudden - probably from his talk of how many chicks he bangs every week and how much he hurts them. I didn't want to be one. I had been one too many times with other guys.

But he wouldn't let up. Being turned down must have really turned him on. I tried to talk to him a few more times over the next couple of weeks to discuss what school he wanted to put on the next poetry slam at, and when, but the conversation would always revert back to him talking about what women he wanted to do (but didn't want to do - the struggle of an addict), and of course, how he wanted me most of all.

So I handed the page over to him, blocked him on facebook, and deleted his number.

I know he wanted to change - we all do - but it's just not possible on willpower alone. And I couldn't help him in that regard worth a damn. Quite the opposite. That's like telling your bartender you want to quit drinking...after this one.

One More Letter from the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend: "The Dumpy Sad Ex-Boyfriend"

I'm going to write a post tonight or tomorrow about my ex-boyfriend, "Evan", who has been sending me sad emails. As a preview: he was hired as a delivery driver at Pizza Hut where I worked in 2011 as an assistant manager. Same age as me (at the time, 27-28). I left my husband of ten years (together ten years, but married at 7) to be with him in October. Told him I loved him two weeks later; he told me not to use those words. I broke up with him. He wanted me back. I cheated on him. He wanted me back. I broke up with him. He wanted me back. I cheated on him. He wanted me back. Ad infinitum, until December 2012 - I broke up with him and it didn't matter that he wanted me back. I didn't go back to him until July 2013 (in December I wanted to be alone and recover, but kept getting into relationships; finally I wanted him back because he was "better" than all the other guys I'd been with - I loved him more, and he was a better lover, I mean). Broke up with him again in August 2013 to be with someone else, again. Broke up with that guy and went back to Evan, who had planned a 3-month trip to Canada with his best friend/novelist John (Evan's an artist - he was gonna paint) while we were broken up the last time. I wanted him to stay; he wanted to go. He left. I realized it was for the best and I didn't want him any more and decided to be with someone else. That's all a bunch of crap but it catches you up.

That guy (#27: The Propane Truck Driver) had sex with me and told me he had herpes. I realized I didn't want to be with any one any more because I didn't like who/what I'd become, plus, I probably had herpes, for all I knew (have been tested lots since; don't have it). But I saw it as a gift from God (choirs of angels singing). Entered sex/love addiction recovery very seriously on October 16, 2013. Relapsed November 21 after the woman who brought me into recovery (Margaret) killed herself and a guy at a concert who'd scored a film he'd created about a guy committing suicide asked me for my number when I went up to talk to him about it. He asked me out on a date and we had sex even though I told him I didn't want to have sex until marriage after what I'd been through the last two years and that I might have herpes. I kept seeing him through December 9 even though I knew I needed to get back to recovery and being alone (me = selfish; he had a lot to offer).

Now it's December 11. I'm on Day 2 again of recovery (I had made it all the way to Day 42 the first time) after adding another name to the list (I'm sorry, "James"; I really am), and I'm going for no less than 90 this time. Ideally, I'd actually rather not date or get into a relationship until either my divorce is final (I filed two years ago now - waiting on him, though), or until I reconcile with my husband (not sure which will be the case - not even sure which one I want). (James didn't like the fact that I wasn't divorced, and it hit me - duh).

So right now, I'm just rooting for me - I get to recover now. Grow up. When most women are "bachelorettes" and "coming of age" between 18-24, I was with my husband. I never got that period of being alone and coming into my own Being. So now I am, at 30.

I'm also continuing on with my relationship inventory, which I'm posting here on this blog. It's part of my healing process. And I plan on using some of it, eventually, for a memoir that I'd like to publish in 2 to 5 years (probably closer to 5, so I can make it really, really good). For now, it's scattered, not continuous/congruous/cohesive/coherent (in many places). Leaving things out. Just gathering information, facts, thoughts, feelings. Focusing on relationships. Need to read more memoirs for examples (like Mary Karr's - I had stopped reading when Margaret died....time to get back on the horse).

I have posted a few of these emails from Evan as I prepare to write about him (he's #1: The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend). (I don't mean to dehumanize them with nick-names. Rather, one of the main points of this inventory is to see where I've hurt people. But their names - like Evan, James, Bruce, Ronnie - those are all made up any way, so the descriptors actually make it easier for me to remember who they were. Sad, I know.) So here's his latest email; he keeps reminding me how much I hurt him, and it's good, in a way (although after this one, I plan to block them, since I'm powerless not to respond and I keep making myself late for work, since he writes after 2:00 am I get them in the morning).

I had asked Evan to stop trying to suck me into his vortex - I'd heard that phrase somewhere and wanted to use it - so that's why he begins this way:

Sllllluuuuuurrrrrrrp!  I'm trying hard to be an un-vortex.  Part of me wants you to be happy, part of me wants to have you, and still another part wants you to feel the pain that I feel because you've shown what my love is worth.. and its embarrassing to have to realize it isn't much.  I wish I was a more lovable person and that I inspired loyalty, but I don't think I'm that kind of person and knowing thyself is part of transcendence.  I always wanted to have my own family to look after since I was young.  I thought loyalty and honesty were the things a family man had to have and I guess I just see that as silly now looking at ours and other past relationships.  I don't know who else to express these things too.  If they bring you down a little... good.  Filling your life with nothing but positive people and places is a fools errand.. not being affected by the negative I think is the secret. 

Anyhow I'm not always negative.  I don't think others would put up with me as long as they have if that were true.  I think because you've now lapped me in terms of dating that it puts me in a different class... Like I can't keep up.  I'm not good enough for you.  I know you say its the spiritual churchiness I lack and the income, but if I was a quiet churchgoer with a pad I still think you would think yourself in a different class because of how many men you've had at your fingertips over the past few years with no 500 pound gorilla in the room to scare them off.  We skinny boys can seduce a whole lot of women but its the strong scary ones that keep them more often than not.  I really think that is what rolls across your mind when you roll your eyes at my sad messages.  I'll stop bumming you out soon enough.  I don't keep too many friends, dove, and I keep the ones I have for a long time.  So when you just move on past me because I take off (for a damn good reason) I'm still wanting to talk about my problems with you... only YOU is the problem.

So anyway... I jut smoked a shit ton of weed and laughed with a couple Canucks for the past 5 hours... So I'm not getting great sex with someone utterly new and fascinating who is fascinated with me while working a dream job and hanging out with a cool kid... I still know how to have a good time.  If your dumpy sad ex-boyfriend sends you the occasional depressing email what's it to you.  Just don't respond or be a total asshole until I run off like in "White Fang" with Ethan Hawk and that wolf-dog.

Cleaning Up the Mess You've Made

I was talking to my sister Dawn on the phone a moment ago. She was telling me about her Thanksgiving and the various drunken brawls that took place. She broke our cousin Tanya's nose and now Tanya won't talk to her (she's as alcoholic as we and the rest of our mom's side; Tanya's dad, our uncle, is in prison for killing someone in a D.U.I). Makes me grateful for my Thanksgiving. We only talked about drugs and alcohol and abuse. No one actually engaged in any of those activities at the occasion. But I happened to be in the home of the one normal person in all our family on either side, and that's our aunt Kay, our dad's sister. Every one else is just fucking nuts.



At the end of the convo, Dawn complained about her floor. There are dirty footprints all over it, she says, even though she just mopped it. Now she has to mop again. It's a nightmare. She's gotta go.

"It's the perfect metaphor for life," I said. "We clean up the mess, and then there's another one. We clean that up, and then it's messy all over again. We just can't keep it clean, damn it."



Recovery from sex and love addiction begins with a 90-day "withdrawal" and "inventory" period. For 90 days, you lock yourself in, keep everyone else out, and mop up all the dirty footprints without letting any more accumulate. It's a painstaking, thankless, nasty job. But you gotta get that floor clean. It doesn't mean it's not going to get messed up again in the future. But there sure is a lot of shit there, man, and if you get any more shit piled on top of that shit, you'll never get it clean. Just git 'r done. Then spot-clean daily, as needed.

After 42 days, I had hardly made headway cleaning up the old crap when more mess got tracked in on top of it all. It drove me fucking crazy. I was at the leaver of these new footprints' house last night, and he asked me if we could masturbate while we made out.  I said "no". He walked me out to my car, and I told him I wouldn't be seeing him again. No more dirty soles.



Of course, I gotta check my shoes, too. My former husband used to always call 'em CFM boots. "Oh, you're wearing your CFM boots today, huh hon?" I thought it was the acronym for some elite and glamorous style. It's the acronym for a style, all right.

But it's not really the boots that say, "Come Fuck Me".

It's me.

A Letter from My Higher Power

After Margaret killed herself and I endured the most excruciating pain in my life, I thought that, suddenly, I had become empathic. Suddenly I cared about people. It only lasted a week.

A week after she died, a guy asked me for my number, we went on a date, had sex, and all of a sudden I forgot what pain felt like.

I'm in a strange limbo, now. Do I want the pain back, or not? I've noticed that I've lost all empathy for my fellows. I sent an ex-boyfriend a link to my blog in response to his entreating, because, for some reason, I thought he should "know the truth." I thought that would be easier than just turning him down again. Well, easier for me, sure...but not for him.

He sent me a suicide email. I responded to that email with angry, high-and-mighty how-dare-you-after-what-I've-just-been-through tirades, and he sent me a new suicide email with a 5-year expiration date this time. I sent him more how-dare-yous. He responded with his own how-dare-you, and I responded with, "Eh, I stopped at 'how dare you.' It's just not even worth it. Lates, homes."

Where did my caring go? Am I just that numb that my ex could kill himself, and I'd just be all, "Been there, done that...whatevs."?

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do from here. I just told one of my best friends that I'd gotten a suicide email from my ex after I sent him a link to my blog, expecting her to be on my side. Big surprise. She had to hang up, she was so disgusted with me. I upset her, big time.

I thought, "Whoa, is that what I'm supposed to be like? Like...care?" (Somehow I saw myself as the victim in this suicide email scenario.)

I know that if I stop dating this guy (who is now willing to not have sex until marriage, so it's so hard to say "no" to him now...he wants to take me to a play in Coronado tomorrow night)...I'll be a better person. But right now...I'm in "relapse mode".

[Time lapse]

Okay, I just got off the phone with my sponsor. I did cry, real tears, so that's good. And I feel pain again. She recognized that I'm creating wreckage, so she gave me this assignment: "Adora, I want you to write, right now, a letter to you from your higher power. What would God say to you about Margo, about this guy you're dating, about your ex? Then I want you to call me back and read it to me." I love my sponsor. She always reminds me about the ol' HP.

So, here goes:

Dear Adora (that's not your real name, but I'll humor you here),

Stop. Look up. Listen.

I gave you Margo so you could heal. I placed her right in front of you when you needed someone most. When you started recovering, though, you left her behind. You stopped spending time with her. You stopped helping her. You weren't doing My Will. So I took her away so you could feel, so you could learn to be there for others. I wanted you to experience real pain and sadness, and come through the other side of it with the true capacity to love. I had other reasons for Margo and for others, but those ones are for you. But you took that growth and learning opportunity away from yourself by dating this new guy. It's like Margo died for nothing. You aren't getting what you were supposed to out of it. In one week you were over her death, thanks to this...distraction...of yours. One week. You are back to being comfortably numb and blithely unaware of the messages I am trying to send to you, and you are no longer on the path I set you on. You've blocked yourself from the Sunlight of the Spirit once again.

You are really good at convincing yourself that everything on Earth is from Me. You say that "everything that happens" is My Will. Well, Adora, I've got news for you. Sometimes, it's your will. Sometimes, it's a man's will. It's not always Mine.

I'll make situations work for Me, sure. If you insist on going a certain direction, away from Me, I'll find a way to turn you back around. But it's a lot harder down those roads than if you would just walk with Me from the beginning. Usually, the lesson I give you then is much more painful. Wouldn't you rather get the blessings that come from staying by My Side?

Don't you trust Me?

I don't want you to hurt any one. And I don't want any one to hurt you, but I can't stop them. I can only work through you, if you let Me. But you have to let Me in, and keep Me there. I know it hurts sometimes. Life is painful when you don't use people or other things to make yourself feel better. But I'll make you feel better, if you trust Me and stay with Me. You don't need to lash out in anger at your fellows. They don't have Me with them when they are hurting you. But if you keep Me with you, they can't hurt you at all. Be My Love, even in the face of wrath, and you'll feel My Love.

You don't know what I have in store for you. That's okay. You don't have to know. Do you know how crazy you'd be if you knew the future? And what then would be the point of living? There'd be no surprises.

It's time for you to be honest. You haven't been completely honest with "James" because you are trying to get things from him. You are being selfish, self-seeking, dishonest, and afraid. You haven't told him how terrible it makes you feel to date him, when you had given yourself the boundaries of no dating until you've completed your relationship inventory and no sex until marriage (and you broke both with him). You're just so focused on the end result that you envision for yourself. You want to be married to a successful, spiritual man who will treat you with respect...and save you. More news: "James" may not be as spiritual as you project. Does he pray morning and night, asking for knowledge of My Will and the power to carry it out? Does he carry the vision of My Will into all of his activities? Does he take his own moral inventory, and serve others, or does he do what he wants, when he wants, how he wants, for himself? You don't even know the answers to these questions. Worst of all, you are giving up going to meetings to date him. Please stop.

I know fantasy is more appealing than reality. But you got off the merry-go-round before, and you can do it again. I won't push you off -- but you're welcome to get off yourself, any time you'd like, when you're ready to come back to Me. Take the leap of faith. I'll hold your hand, and I won't let go -- if you won't.

Love,

GOD

Boundaries; and Margaret, part 4

Here's the draft I wrote this morning:

"Okay Mr. Awesome, lemme lay it down for ya. :) First, I'm quite taken with you, and am certain that you're 20,000 leagues above any one I've ever dated in as many ways as I can think of, and, I feel an uncannily strong connection with you.

"Second...Okay, so, the whole no-sex-til-marriage thing might have been extreme...ly impossible....to uphold. BUT...can we try this?: Rather than using what you consider to be a too-rigorous and out-dated socio-religious more (accent on the "e") to dehumanize my own personal journey, considering my no-sex boundary meaningless, can you allow me to just be certain that you like me for me before we get intimate again (for THIS, truly, is the point)?

"I have to be honest: I held back the other night/morning because I was specifically trying to not impress you in the sexual arena (which is just the opposite of my ideal sexual situation), just because I didn't want you to want me for just that. So, here, I'm granting you honesty, rather than ducking and running (my old modus operandi). So...would you be willing to wait, say, 10 dates, and THEN let us go totally buck wizzild?"

But after sitting on it and having more time to think, I realized that to set a boundary all I really have to do is set the boundary, with no lengthy, groveling, rambling, TMI-explanation necessary. So, here's what I actually texted him (and it's still totally passive):

"Would you mind if I had you pick me up from work instead? I know the no-sex-til-marriage idea is extreme, but I would just feel more comfortable if we had a few more dates first before adding that back in. Are you okay with that?"

No response yet. Who knows, maybe I won't get one. Or maybe he does actually like me for who I "am" (to the extent of the "me" that he could possibly get to know in less than a day).

And why does the no-sex-til-marriage idea have to be extreme (if it's my idea)? If that's truly what I want, then why can't I just have it? And how the hell did 10 dates go down to "a few"? I shake my head at myself.

From the website Daily Plate of Crazy, here's a snip of an article entitled Sexual Boundaries: When No Means No, by D.A. Wolf:

"All joking aside, we need to set boundaries even when we’re open to exploring them, and communicate – like adults – when we’re uncomfortable or unwilling to pursue an activity further.

Lifescript’s article offers this, which is essential:

Your partner should respect your boundaries… If he presses you at all, consider whether he’s the right guy for you."

It would have been better to slap that initial boundary back on and say, "Look, pal, if you wanna see me again, you're gonna respect me and my boundaries, period. If not...I'll find a different ambitious, intelligent, handome, spiritual, 30-something engineer/composer who travels around the world and has his own place...who is willing to wait for marriage to fuck me." Ugh. I guess I could always try e-harmony or match.com. Or nothing. This dating thing is...difficult....to say the least.

Thank God I didn't include the I-held-back-during-the-initial-sex-but-if-you're-willing-to-wait-I'll-become-your-total-sex-slave-and-rock-your-world bait. Jesus.

I posted this on my facebook page, but I'll share it here as well:

"Eesh, the pain's back. Chest, throat. Nagging, heavy, wrenching. I miss you, Margaret*. Read my journal entries last night from January 2013 when you were trying to teach me how to set boundaries with people and stick to them. I want to do a better job, in your honor (and mine). I can't let the things you taught me go to waste. You told me, "The first time you set a boundary, you're gonna feel like you're gonna die." Yep, you knew it'd be hard for me. Then, "The people who accept your boundaries are the healthy ones; the people who don't accept your boundaries are the sick ones." You also taught me to "stick with the winners" so I wouldn't get hurt (meaning spiritually-fit people). And, you said that "people will show you who they are, so pay attention."  

"Margaret, you were the strong woman I want to be. Thanks for taking the time to help me, and I'm sorry it took me losing you for the things you were trying to teach me to really sink in. I'm going to make mistakes, but I'll have you with me, always, to remind me to keep loving myself first and not let any one take advantage of me, period."

It's just too bad Margaret just got sick and tired of it all. Maybe she just didn't see any more winners out there.

The pain started when I got a call from her sponsor letting me know that she had just gotten out of Margaret's lawyer's office for the reading of her Will (that she'd sent in before she offed herself). He sponsor said my name was mentioned and gave me the number for Margaret's lawyer. I just called, and she's having me come in tomorrow at 10 am for another reading. Apparently Margaret left me with something tangible, too.

God, I really feel like shit for having sex with this guy when this whole time (the 37 days since I entered the sex and love addiction recovery with gusto) Margaret was right there with me, cheering me on, and she was shocked that I was actually able to do it, but she was so proud of me. And then after she takes herself out, what do I do to cope but take the first opportunity do the very thing she was trying to help me not do? Well, it wasn't the first opportunity from the very beginning. I'd turned down a total of seven guys over the course of my sex/love recovery. But, dur, when I saw this guy's suicide video, I thought the hand of God was upon me. But now...man, it just feels...icky.

You live, you learn. I'm just not so fond of the whole learning-by-pain bit. But eh, guess it's really the only thing that works, in the end.

*As usual, that's not her real name. Thought I'd go ahead and disclaim that for any new readers. With few exceptions, due to the "racy" nature of my blog, most names have been changed, including mine.

The Satellite Communications Engineer

Well, I'm not sure whether to call him The Satellite Communications Engineer/Composer, or Maybe THIS Time...?, or Oops, I Did it Again...and Again...and Will Probably Do It Again...and Again. See The Inventory if you don't know what I'm talking about.

Look, I didn't mean to. Here's what happened: I was at the college Concert Hour where I work as usher/program designer/set-up/break-down person blah-blah-blah and one of the composers who was showcased was this guy who'd scored a film he'd created about a guy who'd committed suicide. So, since Margaret's all I've been able to think about lately (see my last 3 posts), the vid struck a chord.

So I went up to him after the concert and I told him about how a dear friend of mine just committed suicide, too, but that, strangely, his piece gave me some peace, and we got to talking about Church and Star Trek for some reason and our connections just fired like a Tesla coil. He asked me for my number and I gave it to him without a moment's hesitation. Then later, I added him on facebook for a little extra yep-I'm-interested-so-go-ahead-and-call-me hint-hint. And he did call me after his second concert of the day and invited me to a different concert that night that he wasn't in but was going to (Steve Poltz), and I said yes, I'd love to, after choir rehearsal. So he picked me up at the church, we told each other our life stories on the way over to the Belly Up, and we got up close and personal over bacon cheese fries and silly sing-alongs. Was I in heaven? Hell yes I was.

Our souls had mated in a matter of hours and he figured why not seal the deal with hey-can-we-go-back-to-my-place?-I-promise-it-won't-be-a-one-night-stand [after I'd told him earlier in the evening, during our rigorously honest no-subject-barred initial convo in the car that I was waiting to have sex until marriage after the 27-guys-in-2-years debacle]. I thought he meant we'd stay up all night drinking hot cocoa with marshmallows, crying and laughing and cuddling and bonding, but as he bent down to unzip my boot the moment of clarity slapped me on my naïve little ass and I stopped him before he got to do any ass-slapping (or similar-type I'm-a-fucking-liar-and-I-just-wanted-to-fuck-you activities).

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Heyyyyy. No. Uh-uh. We're not having sex, remember? What ever happened to the whole this-won't-be-a-one-night-stand thing?"

"Well...oh." He was speechless and his shoulders and arms dropped as his ego deflated from the inside out. I could almost detect tears in his eyes. "Well...um...I guess...you got the wrong idea...I just meant this wouldn't be a one-night stand...like...this won't be the last time we see each other?" Hurt, pleading puppy dog face.

"Uh-uh. I said I didn't want to have sex 'til marriage. I thought we were gonna, I dunno, talk, and stuff."

Does anybody have a temporary DUMBASS tattoo I can put on my forehead? (Temporary is wishful thinking, I know.)

Well anyway, there that ball went a-rolling. It went, "Okay, I'm sorry, you're right, no sex," to "Well, can we sleep next to each other without our clothes on?" to him trying to have sex with me again, to me telling him about the potential herpes (see #27: The Propane Truck Driver), to him not even caring and trying to have sex with me again, to me saying I really don't like condoms and I don't want to have sex any way, to him still trying to have sex with me, to me telling him I'm not on birth control so we shouldn't, to HIM TRYING TO HAVE SEX WITH ME AGAIN, to me finally just letting it happen, what the fuck, let's get it over with (but out loud I'm like, "Okay, sure, why not"), and he used the pull-out method. Then, more sex that morning, even though I was exhausted and was so not into it. It's not even that the sex itself wasn't good. It had been a long 42 days.

But what bothers me is that I went from NO DATING and NO SEX TIL MARRIAGE (remember the whole "done with men" thing?) to DATING and SEX ON THE FIRST DATE. So it's just my latest "What the hell just happened?" moment.

And yet, despite all this, I'm totally blinded by "what this guy has to offer". By all appearances he's amazing: he's 34 (four years older than I), he's a satellite communications engineer full-time and a film-score-etc.-composer/musician/film creator on the side, he has his own (very nice) place, he's been to 25+ countries (he wants to take me on his next business trip to Canada), he was raised well and just re-joined a Christian church to re-connect with the faith of his upbringing, he runs marathons and goes hiking, he has chickens and a garden and a piano, he's a math/science geek, and he's absolutely brilliant-minded, driven, motivated, exciting, ambitious, tall, bearded, handsome, funny, analytical, and is self-admittedly the kind who falls "fast and hard" and is looking for love.

Nevermind that he doesn't respect my boundaries and he's the prime example of self-will run riot. But, he sure knows what to say. "I don't want to jinx this, but...maybe we've been doing it right all along, just not with the right person?" Hook, line, sinker.

We've got another date for dinner tomorrow night. He wants me to park my car at his house and have us go in his car from there. Gee, what could possibly happen? Stay tuned for more #29 as The Fall of Woman series continues.

But who knows? Maybe THIS time...he is The One?

[Cue audience laughter]

Margaret part 3, and the Acapulco Parking Lot

I have to believe in God's will otherwise I'll rack myself with guilt. The last night we hung out she really wanted me to come inside after the meeting and dinner, again, but I wanted to go home and write. I need to start setting boundaries, I thought. I'm gonna do something I wanna do, damnit. I conjured something like, "Aww, I'm so sorry, it's late, and I'm tired. And I have to work tomorrow, so, I should probably just go home. Hey, gimme a hug. Everything's gonna be okay. Pray, meditate, read the Book. Look, he's done, you gotta let him go. Let go and let God. You'll feel so much better once you turn it over to your higher power." I don't think it resonated even slightly. Her eyes were an abyss of sadness.



I had gotten tired of her constant complaining about him. I had tried my best to be sympathetic (or at least act that way) for about a month. I'd been through the ringer myself, and she was helping me to recover and dig myself out of my hole. But as I got better, I watched her get worse. If I can recover, why can't she? It had been almost two months since Crawford had broken up with her. But they were still under the same roof, so she couldn't really move on. She had a hard time with acceptance. She wanted him to just stop what (she thought) he was doing (indulging in his sex addiction with not-her). "He's in the disease," she said. "If only I can just make him see it!" It was painful for her to be so in love him and be around him but be rejected at every turn and told that it was her, not him (and refusing to believe that). "How can he do this to me? He was so in love with me! I know he loves me. And then he tells me that, as far back as 6 months ago, he didn't even like me and stopped wanting to be around me? But he was telling me he loved me all that time...so which is it? What am I supposed to believe? I just need to make him see it -- he's in the disease."

He left to go camping one week and she had me over almost every night before he got back. We smoked cigarettes in the backyard (I don't even smoke) and ate Mexican food over candelight and incense and talked about our respective problems with (her = man, me = men).



As for me, I was done with them. The last guy I had been with had told me, four days after we'd had sex, (paraphrased) "Oh, yeah, I've had genital herpes for 22 years, got it when I was 18, and, sorry for not telling you, but I didn't know we were gonna have sex." Wtf? ¡Híjole! One huge difference between Margaret and me: I do see my part in it. Sterling was the 27th guy I'd "been with" in some form or another in the two years after my marriage, so it was bound to happen at some point, the way I go about things. Funny me...I trust them all so openly, always thinking this one will be different...maybe this one's The One. Fuck, it's an understatement to say that I'm lucky it wasn't AIDS. Then I'd have to go around and talk to kids in high schools about abstinence for the rest of my shortened life. Jesus, thank you God.



Actually, I met a woman with AIDS the other night, at a meeting, as fate (or God, as I like to believe) would have it. Before I got to know her, or that she had AIDS, I had been called to the podium to be the first of the meeting's 3-minute general sharers. I let everyone know about Margaret and discussed how important it is that we all "stick together and hang together, or else most of us will finally die alone" (guilt). Mary, who was to be the main speaker after intermission, was sitting in the front row and listening while I shared. Later she stopped me and spoke to me at the break. She held my hands in hers and pulled me close and looked deep into my eyes with all the earnestness at her command. She described her "white light experience" and told me what she felt on the other side of the tunnel during her brief visit. She said she felt the greatest love, warmth and comfort that one can't even imagine. After that experience, she knew (to believe: to have confidence or faith in the truth in) that if someone is suffering, as Margaret was, God allows that person to come home to Him to experience that Infinite Happiness and Abundant Love. Later, when she spoke to the group, she informed us all that she had contracted AIDS 23 years ago from an artificial insemination. But she was alive, she felt, because her work here wasn't done. She was probably the most spiritual person I've met yet, and, meeting her the day I after I found out about Margaret's suicide is what I like to call a "God shot".



I didn't believe in heaven until Margaret's suicide, but now I see why people invented it. (Ha -- okay, so, former-long-time-atheist-turned-spiritual-gone-Christian still holds on to some of her old ideas...and strives for spiritual progress, not perfection.) Believing in God and heaven doesn't remove the pain from my chest, but it does give me peace and acceptance. And the pain goes away a little more each day. And sometimes the guilt does come back, but then I have to remember, again, that I've chosen to concede that I'm powerless and to believe that it was God's will to both bring Margaret into my life as well as to take her out of it. So even if I had been there for her more during that last week-and-a-half, it might have done nothing, or delayed the inevitable, or kept her alive and suffering longer, or saved her life, shit...but see, none of those scenarios are what was, or is. What is, is, and is God's will (I do believe...I just have to remind myself of that, oh, throughout the day, every day).

Margaret's suicide doesn't, spiritually and mentally, bother me as much any more. I wish I could say the same for the people who are left (lol). When people found out that I'd been with her for awhile towards the end, they'd ask me why and how and where she did it. The "how" hasn't been released, although I suspect pills might have been the instrument. As for the "where" -- she was found in her backyard (as, similarly, her fiancé from two years prior had been found). The "why" of her suicide is, contrastingly, ultimately unknowable, since Margaret was Margaret and no one else was in her body (unless you believe in the Devil, perhaps). There're the childhood molests, the estranged family, the divorce, the not ever having kids, the deceased fiancé, this break-up, the abandonment by friends, the lack of faith or hope and presence of despair and pain, etc. I do know that she was suffering, and from the looks of things, was just "done" with the whole life thing. But...there is something that sticks with me as one of the more...moldy...layers of the onion.

Disclaimer: I haven't shared the following with any one. I'm glad I change peoples names and use a "pen" name for myself on this blog. (Oh, and about the pen name, here's the quick aside on that: #1 once asked me, when we were about to watch some porn, "So, what's your porn name?" I was like, "What?!" and before I could inform him that I wasn't in porn, he informed me, "Yeah, you know; you take the name of your first pet as your first name, and the name of the street you grew up on as your last name. Wha-la, porn name." Uh-hyuck).

Margaret told me on more than one occasion that she'd wanted to make Crawford suffer, to feel the pain that she was feeling, to make him see. She told me she wanted to throw his belongings into the driveway and burn them, and I talked her out of it. She said she wanted to snoop through his truck for "evidence", and I talked her out of it. She texted the suspected woman over and over, trying to "sabotage" him, until I told her she oughta stop. I was actually with her while she searched frantically through his camping gear in the garage after he'd gotten back from the camping trip to see if there was an extra sleeping bag or panties or any other evidence of another woman. I remember thinking, "Fuck, poor thing. She's goin' nuts." And I couldn't do a goddamn thing for her.



But she sure helped me. Margaret may have taken her life, but I will always maintain that, in a way, she saved mine. I wouldn't be where I'm at today - on this 1+ month of "no men" - if it weren't for her. We sat on her couch and she gave me little assignments to do, like, she had me write about my "sexploits" and read them to her so we could find a pattern. A week later, I had written about the first seven. But...when I went over them with her on her couch, she stopped me before I got to #3.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked.

I stammered, taken off guard, still chuckling a little, "Oh...uh...I dunno...".

"Stop. Don't you see? It's not funny."

"Oh, well, I know, but...".

"Adora, are you proud of what you've done? Do you think this is a game?" Her eyes were huge and serious. She didn't blink, once.

I looked down. I just wanted her to like me. "Well no, I just..."

"Then why are you laughing? You should be crying. I want to see you cry." Fuck, I felt like crying, then. She could see it in my face. "See? Okay, I want you to do this whole thing over. Next time, I want to see tears." This coming from a woman who had said before that she couldn't cry, didn't know why, and might go off her anti-depressants so that maybe she could.

"Okay. Sorry. I will."



For me, I guess it's just easier to look at it all with a sense of humor. Really, when I look back, I do laugh.

Here, for example, is #2:

I had heard about a $300 karaoke contest being held at one of my favorite restaurants, the Acapulco. So impulsively, I drove 30 miles to go enter and give it a shot. I had been pretty depressed, having had a restraining order set against me by my husband, whom I'd left a month-and-a-half prior for #1, and I wasn't able to see my little boy (more on that in a future post). I was in a lot of pain. Karaoke would help get my mind off it for awhile. Better than screaming and crying on the floor for another night.

But I got there too early. Nothing had started yet. So, I went to the brewery across the parking lot to have a honey ale to "loosen up". I took my time with it to savor the taste, and it seemed to do the trick. When I got back to the Acapulco, the karaoke still hadn't started, so...well, I'd all ready gotten the ball rolling. Here's how it rolled:

I sit down at the bar. I feel guilty for sitting at the bar and not buying a drink. I get myself a margarita, double, with Patron Añejo. A table of Mexican guys start talking to me. Angel (okay, that's another name I just can't bring myself to change) comes and sits down next to me and asks to buy me a drink. I accept with only slight hesitation. We show each other pictures of our kids on our phones and complain about our custody battles. We get drunk. I bomb my Adele song. I go to the bathroom and hide for 30 minutes and contemplate jumping out through the window to escape. I go back out and he's still waiting for me outside the door. The DJ starts DJ-ing. We salsa til my legs feel like they're gonna fall off. I say I need to go "charge my cell phone" and "will be right back". He follows me to my car. He says he needs to charge his phone and asks me to come to his car. I do. We get in. After some conversation, he kisses me. He tells me how beautiful I am. He says he wants to "make love" to me. I let him, but I can't wait til it's over. When it's over, I tell him I have a boyfriend. He (shocked but forgiving) asks me for my number. I give it to him. He lets me go. I go, drunk (shocked and devastated and full of self pity) through the In-N-Out drive-thru for a burger.  I sob in my car in the parking lot in between sober-me-up bites.

Um...see? Fuckin' hilarious.

Damn.



But, "Resentment is the number one offender. From it stem all forms of spiritual disease. It kills more [people] than anything else." I've heard that plenty of times in recovery, and I understand why I need to not resent people, situations, things that happen, myself - anything. I know I need to turn my resentments into compassion -- especially my resentments against myself.

Here are some more:

"Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today."

"All of my problems are of my own making." (I guess that wouldn't apply to something like, I dunno, cancer, but for the most part, it's true.)

"If I have a problem with any one else, the problem is really with me."

"God, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

Some people who "knew" Margaret say that she used a "permanent solution to a temporary problem". Well, shit -- if it gets that bad, where life is the problem, then hell, I just don't even know. I like to think nothing's that bad, but maybe that's because I tend to be unaware, by choice. Until now, anyway. Now that I'm writing about all this shit, and yeah, realizing that no, it's not really that funny...I can see how people could just get so bent out of shape over it all and just wanna be done with the whole damn thing. So I'm glad I have my son to live for (I do have him on weekends now) and I have 12-step meetings for four different recovery programs, lol. And I have God. My belief in a power greater than myself means I don't have to understand everything, but it does mean I have to realize my powerlessness over many things, and accept those things as they are and be at peace with them. God is either everything, or else He is nothing. And all the things I've done, I don't even need to blame myself for, because it's all part of God's plan for me.

"Religion is for those of us who are afraid of Hell. Spirituality is for those of us who have been there."