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 Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 2

Well, shoot, now that I've started writing again, all of a sudden I have more to say.

After spending all day at Starbucks writing my post yesterday, I drove down to pick up my son from his dad's house. He fell asleep on the way back up to where I was headed for church choir rehearsal. I had over an hour before rehearsal would start, so I went over to my now-boyfriend's house for a quick kiss. I had spent the night there the night before so I'd all ready seen him in the morning, but, I wanted to see him again.

[The interaction between us that morning had both depressed me (as things tend to do lately) but also provided me with a revelation (as things tend to do often).]

That morning I received a call from a bill collector that got me out of my boyfriend's bed. Jason (not his real name, as usual) and I had just woken up, and I had all ready begun to express some dissatisfaction with certain aspects of my life. He shushed me and said, "We've only been awake for what, 20 minutes, and this all ready? Come on."

He doesn't want to hear about such things. I'm not sure if it has to do with him being 25 and living with his parents and being totally spoiled, with people taking care of him hand and foot and therefore him having no concept of what it means to nurture someone else, but, that's what I'm going with.

He complained when I got off the phone with the bill collector - I had answered and calmly set up a payment, which he didn't understand. "You should have asked them, 'What the hell are you doing, calling someone at 8 in the frickin' morning?' Geez!" I started to explain that I had previously scheduled that call, but he wasn't interested in hearing me speak. He interrupts me routinely, implying that he feels that his words have more value than mine. It's a trend I've noticed over the past few days since we became "boyfriend and girlfriend". I'm much quicker to pick up on these sorts of things now that I'm in recovery and am being "restored to sanity" one day at a time (some days are saner than others, for sure).

I meditated in the shower so that I could get my mind off what I perceived as his immaturity and how invalidated I felt. Or, rather, what I mean to say is I meditated to accept his perceived immaturity and to observe my feelings and figure out what to do with them other than what I would have done in the past (scream, kick, yell, punch walls, drink, use drugs, etc).

[Also worth mentioning is the fact that he takes medications for bipolar, anxiety and sleep disorders...so...his demeanor is probably a combination of the aforementioned living-with-his-parents-at-that-age and these latter conditions. But...nature, nurture, tomayto, tomahto...all that is really beside the point.]

If I don't kick and scream when I don't get my way, how do I make myself feel better when I feel "wronged" by someone?

I kill my ego. Doesn't sound like it'd feel good, but actually, it does.

And here's how I do it: First, I meditate, bringing myself wholly "present", taking my mind off the other person and focusing it on me (my body), my feelings (not my thoughts), and what's in front of me (literally: shampoo...soap...hot water...shower curtain...etc), and then, after becoming aware of my self and what is real (tangible corporeality) as opposed to what is not real (thought perceptions)...all that's left is really all there "is".

And then...I enter another realm. Y'all ready? That's right -- I pray.

Okay, this is where the atheist goes, "Aww, man, another crackpot." Or, "That is all so effing kooky, and way too complicated." But my mind is a complicated thing, and it gets me into trouble, time and time again. So what I do here is actually simple. And I need to simplify things so that I don't have to feel insane all the time (because, as of right now, I don't have meds to regulate whatever happens up there...but hell, maybe I don't need 'em, any way. Let's see...).

One prayer I use is called "The Serenity Prayer". It goes like this: "God, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference." One thing I've learned by now, although I have to remind myself every day, is that I can't change anyone else. And that is for damn sure. The only person I can change is me...but I can change me. (Though, still, not without some outside help.)

Then the next one: "God, I offer myself to Thee, to build with me and to do with me as Thou wilt. Relieve me of the bondage of self, that I may better do Thy will. Take away my difficulties, that victory over them may bear witness to those I would help of Thy Power, Thy Love, and Thy Way of Life. May I do Thy Will, always." I was an atheist for the first 28 years of my life, and I have to say, I much prefer spirituality these days. When I let go of everything and just trust it to be part of some Master Plan that I have nothing to do with, I get to experience a sort of simple, effortless peace and freedom...even joy.

Here's another prayer that I recite from memory, after the other two: "My Creator, I am now willing that You should have all of me, good and bad. I pray that You now remove from me every single defect of character that stands in the way of my usefulness to You and to my fellows. Grant me strength, as I go from here, to do Your bidding." I take a look at what "defects of character" are driving me and making me "useless" (sitting in resentment and self-pity makes me "useless"; helping others makes me "useful"). These "defects" usually include selfishness, self-centeredness, dishonesty (most often I'm dishonest with myself), and fear. Doing God's Will, as opposed to mine, for me, means asking God to remove these "defects" and replace them with positive, useful attributes, like love, patience, tolerance, kindness, honesty and selflessness. Because, believe it or not, that makes me feel better than resenting someone for how they're treating me.

For the record, alcoholics like me actually can't afford resentments. Resentment is what leads many a recovering alcoholic to relapse. "Poor me, poor me, pour me another drink," the saying goes. During my interaction with Jason yesterday morning, I actually thought about how nice it would be to just "check out". I thought about smoking weed and how nice it would be to be high. I thought about drinking and how nice it would be to be drunk. After my nearly two years clean and sober, that is a very dangerous place for my mind to go; absolutely, under no circumstances, can I pick up a drug or a drink, or my life will be over.

And, so, here's the final prayer, the Mack Daddy of them all: "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace! That where there is hatred, I may bring love. That where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness. That where there is discord, I may bring harmony. That where there is error, I may bring truth. That where there is doubt, I may bring faith. That where there is despair, I may bring hope. That where there are shadows, I may bring light. That where there is sadness, I may bring joy. Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort, than to be comforted. To understand, than to be understood. To love, than to be loved. For it is by self-forgetting that one finds. It is by forgiving that one is forgiven. It is by dying that one awakens to Eternal Life."

Amen!

(I do need help remembering this one, though. HWDEDDS CUL SFD...lemme try that.)

After I meditate and pray, I do, at least temporarily, forget about whatever it is that someone did that bothered me. It's a lot of work, but it's a small price to pay to get out of a living hell.

I came up with another way to help me deal with Jason for when I'm around him, because I can't easily do all that meditating and praying when I'm actually around him - that'll take some practice. So before I left the bathroom and went back to his vicinity, I said to myself, "Okay, Adora: any time you're with Jason, shut your mouth other than to laugh at his jokes, to console him, to kiss him, to sing to him, or to suck his dick."

Fuck, I know. It sounds horrible, doesn't it? And my perception could be entirely wrong. But I'm gonna re-mind myself of the phrase my cousin coined when I left my husband to "be with" a co-worker, 2 1/2 years ago: "Enjoy your boy toy." Right now, maybe that's Jason's place in my world. And I really do feel, based on how he "treats" me, that the above five verbs about sum up the place I have in his. I'm not going to try to "get anything" from him other than what he's willing or able to offer (and my prayers do help me with that.) He's not a stepdad to my son (my son's dad is in his life, and okay, so I'll be doing it on my own when he's in my custody...fine). He's not a financial provider (I'm going to school and trying to finish so I can work full-time with a degree...so...I don't get a man to "take care of me"...fine). He's not a spiritual guru (he's an ego-driven, science-loving atheist...fine, I love science, too; ego, not as much, but whatever). He's a musician, and we have fun making music together. He makes jokes, and we have fun laughing together. He's sexy, and we have fun being physically intimate. And he's leaving for the Berklee School of Music in Boston for two years in July, although he'll be coming home for vacations...so the fun'll be over in six months save for intermittently thereafter...if we're even still involved with each other at that point. 

Boy Toy. Fun. Fine.

So, I went over to his house again before choir rehearsal for a kiss, since my son was asleep, and because I do like affection. I came up with another mantra on the way, where I reminded myself: "Save your crazy." In other words, I'll "save my crazy" for, or only talk about my feelings when I'm talking to sponsors, friends, my therapist, people in recovery meetings, or save them for when I write. But presenting them to Jason may not give me a favorable result; I've all ready found him to be a black hole. "Don't go to an auto mechanic for heart surgery," a saying goes. 

So Jason is, to me: "laughter, affection, and music". When I went back over there, instead of talking to him about my feelings, because experience has taught me that I can get nothing out of that other than frustration, I decided this time to just listen to him, laugh at his jokes while sprinkling in some of my own to make him laugh, show him affection, and nurture him. And it all worked out just fine. I didn't lose one ounce of serenity because of my acceptance and decision to just "give".

[And no, he won't read this. I'm hoping he ends up proving me wrong eventually, really. But we'll see.]

Then, I left, and I drove to the foster care facility where I picked up my 16 year-old sponsee Kassandra. She's recovering from alcohol and drug addiction, and I'm working her through the 12 steps. I also hired her to babysit my four year-old son for me during my choir rehearsal last night. I enjoy spending time with and being of service to her, whenever I can, and she enjoys getting out of the foster care facility any chance she gets (it's not a "home" with a family...it houses a large number of "former delinquents" without a home...and the place more resembles an apartment complex with a big office building in the middle than it does a house). Kassandra's doing a lot better now that she's not living in a motel room with her heroin-adddicted dad and now that she's not ending up in juvie over and over (she's been twice). Now, she's going to an adult school for her GED, she's involved in club volleyball, she volunteers at a mental health facility, and she gives me one more reason to stay sober and knock my own bullshit off. I want to be a positive example for someone.

Choir rehearsal was good. I enjoyed watching my director intently as I led the Soprano section. He's so good at letting us know when to be loud, when to be soft, when to cut off, when to come in, with his hands, arms, and face. I think I want to go on for a Master's Degree in Choral Conducting after I get my Bachelor's Degree in Music. I'll be done with my BA in a few semesters; I'm going half-time. Actually, when I woke up here at 4:53 am and decided I needed to write some more (I love it when my addictive nature latches onto writing as opposed to other things), this idea was the first thing that came to my mind.

I dropped Kassandra back off at "home" and drove my boy and I home, where we commenced to build a castle out of giant legos and had the bad guys tear it down and then the good guys beat up the bad guys for tearing it down. Then he asked to watch Max Steel on Netflix, so I set that up for him while he ate dinner, and I took some time to read don Miguel Ruiz' The Mastery of Love. I hadn't read anything for weeks (I was too busy obsessing about Jason and trying to get him to be my boyfriend), so it was nice to get out of my head some more. I picked it up while thinking about the last prayer that I'd quoted above, otherwise known as the St. Francis Prayer (or the 11th Step Prayer), thinking, "Hmm, maybe this book will teach me how to love." It was a Christmas gift from a girlfriend of mine in recovery, but I hadn't opened it up yet. And I only got through about ten pages before my son needed me again, but I read some things that I really appreciated. I have to open myself up to solutions from outside of myself as much as I possibly can. It's just the only way for me to go on.

Before I got to writing here this morning, I had also begun to read again one of my ol' writing professors' blogs. Whenever I go on a reading spree, I try to make sure his work gets in there somewhere. I'll be forever indebted to him for his inspiration; I always learn something from him, even though it's been, say, nearly ten years since I've taken the two classes I took from him (a literature class focusing on autobiography and a beginning creative writing class). Right now he's having to undergo chemotherapy; he's about done with it, and it's working, so I'm glad about that. But gosh, it's amazing to read his work, not just because as a professor of creative writing, he writes extremely well, but also because when I read his work, I always gain some new perspective on my own life situation.

One of the things he wrote about in his last post is the value he has found in community, as people gather to help one another in a common purpose. We don't have to do this thing alone. And that reminds me why I'm of service to those less fortunate - because nothing that I'm going through is really that bad. Other people have it plenty worse.

I need the death of the self (or ego) that St. Francis (attributedly) talks about. For example, I also help a crippled woman named Melia who's in her fifties and can't go anywhere without someone's help. I give her rides and bring her things and spend time with her, just because it gets me out of myself. She calls me every day, in a lot of pain both physically and emotionally. I can't do anything to alleviate her physical suffering, but it makes me feel good to make her laugh or to help her through her own resentments and self-pity (which are probably more founded than mine, though no more or less detrimental to one's well being).

Today I'm giving Melia a ride to the doctor at 2:30. Before that I'll be taking care of my son and reaching out to some people on the phone, to see how they're doing.

I'm gonna try to just be okay today, whatever it takes.

A Letter from the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend: "Goodybe, Adora"

Wow... guess it serves me right for reading your blog.  He sounds great.  Marathons. Tall. Full bearded. Career.  7 orgasms... I've got none of those.  No wonder I haven't heard from you.

Well, goodbye, Adora.  Not sure why you sent the link in the first place if not to spell it out for me that I'm not good enough for you and my brand of love-making which you once thought amusing has been forgotten and eclipsed by all manner of climbers.  Twenty something er other.  It was good knowing you.  Hope I can move on like you always do and have your luck finding what you already have.  I have a bad feeling my ability to be the perfect guy for anyone has been permanently fucked.  I don't even want to do the family thing anymore I don't think.  It just isn't worth the pain when someone you love wants to be with other people all the time, and I haven't ever had any other experiences.  I don't want a kid to have to deal with me when that happens.  You aren't unique.  The first girl I was with left her boyfriend of 2 years for me and was cheating on me after six weeks. The other ones aren't worth mentioning, but its always the same.  It's enough to make a Scorpio take a cold swim.  If you believe in that sort of stuff.  Its funny the suicide in your life has gotten you the best sex and mate of your life and its just had me wondering what the purpose of living is.  Truth and beauty?  All we care for and nothing to do with each other.

I'm thinking of making and selling canvasses while I finish school...  It just seems fitting for a man with no purpose in life to make blank canvasses and the ones at Michael's are too expensive.  Do you think there are enough students to support that?  If I have to work a joke job that can't afford me a woman's love or at least my own survival I won't make it much longer.  Months I think.  Been not sleeping and sobbing quietly a lot.  Praying for a sign.  Not a good sign.  I should have finished school... shouldn't have given you my last two years.  I'm sure the feeling is mutual.  30 just feels too late to start and I feel so much older in my body.  Like there's something wrong with it.  The runt pathetically trying to be loved when it should just get it over with.  Mother, sister, two friends, nieces... my heart goes out to them, but I don't think I can fake it for too much longer for their sakes.  I don't have an angry God or Hell to fear.  I paint and sculpt so well and its so simple but who the fuck cares.  I don't care.  Women only pretend to care about that shit.  Being a boss. A doctor.  Engineer.  Famous.  That shit keeps a woman by your side.  Thinking of things to paint is as much a waste of time as painting them especially if you haven't found a purpose by 30.  I can see more and more everyone else has given up believing in me.  I think that is no more apparent than seeing your love for me wither and corrode at a comical pace so many times.  At least you have [your son], and beauty, and an audience, and people constantly falling in love with you.  I really have nothing other than people that have no choice but to be there.  I've always been only an amusement and I think I amuse less and less as time creeps on.  There isn't anything funny about a cute skinny little boy growing old.  I've got Michael J. Fox syndrome.  At least with you there was my delusion of being wanted.  I doubt you've even thought or fantasized about me a single time since I left.  You said so yourself.  I don't even have any interest in fixing my broken tooth.  It should rot with the rest of me in this cold bed, damp with night sweats.

Delusions can keep you going through a desert for a long time.  What then when the delusion fades away?  Who wants to live in the desert?  Sorry to blindside you with this shit while your high on love and Christian marathon cock... but fuck you anyway (you sent the link and you are a bitch for doing it).  And since I'm not worth the therapy you can deal with it some more.  You like hearing sad people's sad stories.  A wet pussy and crying eyes and Adora is at one with the universe.  Maybe now you've found some better lover for the first position that I used to hold so dear who can get your eyes red and soaking instead.  How many tears would I get?  How many tears did Margaret's man give?

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."