Letting go . . . some more

I've written before about surrender – how difficult it can be to admit I have no control over most of what happens in my life and to deal with the frustration of falling short of expectations. I have worked hard to get to a place where I can identify and feel my emotions – sit with them, ride them out, and know they're always going to change. I've worked hard to get to a place where I can be present in my life, to be in each moment without wallowing in regret over the past or anxiety over the future, to live life on life's terms, and to be okay with all of that. And I am.

It would be disingenuous though to say the last year and a half hasn't put me to the test. My life and family have been turned upside down and inside out and pieced back together in a way I didn't expect or plan. My children have dealt with challenges I never would have chosen for them. And while I truly think we'll all be better for having gone through it in the end, it has gotten me thinking lately about letting go. Not letting go of the control I once thought I had but obviously didn't. Because yes, at one time I thought I could micromanage my world, foolish drunk that I was, and then I learned in recovery that I couldn't. I learned to surrender and stop fighting to control the uncontrollable. I was left with managing my part – my reactions to people and situations, my contribution to relationships, my perception of reality.

But what about the bigger things - the overarching expectations I and others had of what my life was supposed to be? In many ways, those things remained unexamined. The expectation is that I have a family, friends, a career, interests, hobbies . . . a life . . . that looks a certain way. I gave up the frustration with lack of control over meeting expectations, but what of the expectations themselves?

Most of you probably know by now that my son is living at the Discovery School of Virginia. He's been there for almost six months now, dealing with emotional, behavioral, and academic issues that were crippling him at home. The changes in him are remarkable, and it's clear that he's where he needs to be right now. Six months ago he was in a terrible place. His inner turmoil was palpable. It was not normal middle school angst. Not by a long shot. 

Not surprisingly, he always wanted in on the latest trend – expensive sneakers, athletic pants, sunglasses, electronic devices. Those things were inordinately important to him. When we visited with him a few weeks ago, he needed new sneakers, and we took him out to buy some. Historically, shopping with the boy has been a stressful and potentially explosive situation, and that is putting it mildly. If things were going to go off the rails, it was going to be around this exact type of scenario. Trust me. So I laid down the law – I would buy him sneakers, but they would be the cheapest pair we could find, whether he liked them or not. He said he was good with that. He said he didn't care. He said, and I quote, "I don't care about image anymore. Image blocks growth." And he didn't just talk the talk. At the shoe store, he commented that he liked some more expensive shoes, but he was grateful to get the least expensive ones.

I don't know how Discovery does what they do so well, but it occurred to me that the process he's going through now is not entirely different from what I've gone through in recovery. Although my son had not yet (to my knowledge) used alcohol to self-medicate, he had become obsessed with possessing and using anything and everything he could to distract himself from his reality – from feeling and being present – because it was too painful. It worked for him about as well as alcohol worked for me. It worked until it didn't. The distraction would wear off, leaving him as rattled and fearful as ever, grasping for the control that eluded him, overwhelmed by insecurity and sadness, desperately searching for the next distraction. 

Discovery did what we could not do at home. They took away all of the distractions. There is no tolerance for negotiation or emotional manipulation or lashing out at others. The boys are stripped down to their foundations, held accountable for their behavior, and taught to process feelings and problems in a productive way, all while working together as a team to provide for their basic needs with consideration for how their words and actions affect the well-being of others in their group. In other words, he's relearning everything about interacting with the world, without distractions to numb the feelings that evokes. For me, it's very reminiscent of what I went through going to rehab and subsequently learning to live without alcohol. It's a whole new way of life, which requires letting go.

I vividly remember a time when I said with certainty that I would never send my child off to boarding school to let someone else care for him or her. Of course, that was before I had kids. I'm wiser now and realize that I was right! In the sense that I would instead go the extra mile and send my child off to live in the woods to let someone else reprogram him. That's entirely different, obviously.

In all seriousness, there was no way I could have predicted that path. It was a last resort, under difficult circumstances, but it was the right thing to do. And it took a whole lot of letting go – letting go of physical control over my child, letting go of knowing what he's even doing day to day, letting go of the idea that I could parent him out of his misery, but, in a bigger sense, letting go of my own construct of what my son should be and what our relationship should be.

I'm just going to put this out there – my kids have so not met my expectations. At all. They are exceptional and complex people, in very different ways, but in no way what I imagined them to be before they blossomed into what they are. Because I couldn't dream that big. My daughter in particular lives way outside the box and gives zero fucks what you think. So to lay my expectations on them would be . . . limiting. I have no idea where they'll go in life, and I don't want to. Their paths are their own. What I want for them, and what I hope to give them, is a foundation that allows them to succeed and fail and be present in life and to be okay, to have inner peace, no matter where they are or what is happening around them. And to be kind. Always that, because just don't be a dick, please.  

A couple of weeks ago my daughter showed me a you tube video a classmate of hers made, wherein she talks about and assesses all of the other children in their class. I know, I know – there are multiple problems with that scenario. Mostly they're for that girl and her parents to sort out, but what she said about my daughter was, "She's that girl that comes from a troubled family."  Hmmm, comes from a troubled family . . . I admit that it got under my skin a little bit. We talked about all the reasons it shouldn't, why you don't engage when others try to insult you, how people will try to label you to secure their own place in the world, why people are threatened by anything different, etc., etc., bleep, bloop, blop. She knows this. She has it down. She moved on.

But it got me thinking. Is that what we are? A troubled family? And why should that bother me anyway? It all comes back to those big expectations of what my life is supposed to look like. I've gotten comfortable with things being out of my control and not going as planned. I can be at peace when chaos swirls around me. I'm willing to be authentic, even if not everybody appreciates my awkward realness. But maybe there was a part of me that still thought I was failing at life because I was falling short of those expectations - expectations that I wasn't letting go.

A troubled family is no doubt what we are. We have troubles. Who doesn't? I certainly never planned any of this. My kids have both been through the wringer in the last year. Their father and I are navigating the world of co-parenting from different households. My daughter started middle school – gross – where kids, I'm sorry, are giant A-holes. My son lives in the damn woods! But the point is not that we are the troubled family. The point is that we are the family that acknowledges our troubles. We're not ashamed of them. We fight for each other and do everything in our power to deal with them in a healthy and productive way. And no matter what, we love and support each other through them. So if we don't look like a conventional family while doing so . . . well, that's your problem if you don't like it, because we're okay.

Image blocks growth. If I worried about how others view my life, about meeting arbitrary expectations, I wouldn't be where I am today. My family fell apart spectacularly but in a way that allowed each of us to branch out and grow in ways we couldn't have imagined. Had we all held it together, white-knuckled it and focused on distractions rather than dealing with our troubles, we might have the picture perfect postcard of a family to send out this holiday season, but it would just be an image. Instead we're the troubled family, a work in progress with endless possibilities.  

New Normal

It's been so long, I may have forgotten how to write. The last seven months or so have been . . . a bit chaotic on all fronts. Some things are not my story to tell, so I won't, but for me it's probably been the most challenging time in my life. And that's saying something. Suffice it to say, what my children feel and experience affects me more deeply than I ever could have imagined and much more so than anything that happens to me directly. This is the shit they don't tell you about before you have kids, because it's hard, you guys. It's ridiculously hard.

Other things are part of my story and, I think, important to share. Like how my recovery has been the greatest gift during this time. I don't know how I could have survived without it. There have been days when I've felt like a zombie, literally walking aimlessly through the day, unable to function as a human being. One morning in particular, I had a fleeting thought that I might as well give up and drink, simply because I didn't know what else to do. I was just so tired of living. That's when all I've learned in recovery kicked in, and I told on myself. A few years ago, saying words would have been the last thing I would have done in that moment, but this time I blurted it right out, which effectively took the wind out of those self-sabotaging sails.

Recovery has given me the foundation to deal with life, and life right now is messy. The voice in my head that used to tell me to drink and get numb and hide because the world is terrible and will destroy me in the end (wow, that shit is crazy), now tells me that everything will be okay. And I believe that to be true. That things will randomly work out. They just will.

I have a friend who covets normalcy. Because normal people seem so . . . blissfully normal. But what even is that? She and I talk about it often. The older I get, the more I believe no one is normal. I mean, I don't know anyone who is. Granted, my circles are suspect - alcoholics, endurance athletes, lawyers, people who are related to me . . . very suspect. But I don't even know what the standard is supposed to be. And do I want it? I think I've always preferred the company of those who are not usual in the least.

I haven't shared with many people about my recent separation and impending divorce. I was thinking about why that is. It's not because I have shame or regret or even sadness about it, although there is naturally a sadness about the ending of a hugely meaningful period in my life. It's because I'm fiercely protective of my family, and I don't particularly care for the perception that the break up of my marriage is the break up of my family. We'll always be a family. We're a team. Each of us loves and wants the best for every other member of the team. When one of us succeeds, we all succeed. That's how teams work, after all. This is no less true now just because, as my son noted, we have a second team headquarters.

When you tell people you're splitting from your spouse, they have expectations. They expect you to be terribly sad or terribly angry, possibly terribly both. That's normal. They expect you to fall apart. They expect you to say bad things about your "ex". They expect drama and conflict and bitterness and tears. I regret that I'm letting everyone down. (Not actually.) In all seriousness, I would love to be an example that it doesn't have to be that way.

Believe me, I wish there was an easy explanation. My kids would very much appreciate that. But relationships are complicated. People are complicated. We're not normal or predictable. If we're lucky we continue to grow and learn and change throughout our lives. And sometimes we have to assess where we are and adapt, even when it's scary or painful.

What I know is that I will never regret building the life and family we built together. "Ex" is hard for me to say because there are so many better things he continues to be - the father of my children, my co-parent, my friend, my support system - a great father and one of the most kind and decent human beings I know (a much better person than I). What I believe is that we both deserve the opportunity to be truly happy and fulfilled in our lives, and maybe this new path is where we'll find it.

Is this normal? I don't know. I guess our normal is in transition right now, but I feel confident that everything will be okay, and I'll take that over normal any day.

Runaway Monday

A few people have asked me how our first day of school went. Well, funny you should ask . . .

I once heard that having a child is like forever having your heart go walking around outside your body. That struck a chord with me because it feels just so. I never realized how much I would experience life all over again through my children until it started happening. Come to think of it, I'm not sure I would have signed up for that, because good lord - the angst!

My oldest child started middle school last year, and it did not fail to bring the drama. We experience the highest highs and the lowest lows together because my heart aches when he hurts and soars when he's happy. It's an emotional roller coaster every damn day, multiple times a day. The boy is very much a combination of me and his father. He is emotionally mature and sensitive, but he's also head strong and argumentative. That means he wavers between being a calm, rational human being, and an unyielding, shrieking howler monkey. You never know quite what you're going to get. This past Monday was his first day of 7th grade, in a new school, so I knew to tread lightly. My heart was probably going to take a hit.

Of course I second guess everything I do as a parent. Of course I do. I could be more patient, I could raise my voice less, I could be more awesome on a regular basis. There are a hundred things I wish I'd done differently. Daily. But at the end of the day, I just want my kids to feel safe and loved and to be kind, and most days I think they do . . . and are. Other days I just want to shake them and scream, "Feel loved, damn you! Appreciate it! How do you not get how much we love you???" Mind you, I do not, because I'm pretty sure that would be bad parenting, but what do I know?

Monday was an "other day" with the boy. After a rocky evening routine, he was rude, I was cranky, and I confronted him. I told him it was not okay to be rude and disrespectful to his family. He was mad that I hadn't asked him what was wrong. After an extensive and insane argument between a 12-year-old and a 45-year-old about the distinction between "How was your day?" and "What's wrong?" he decided that I simply didn't understand him and maybe he would be better off somewhere else. Yes, he was leaving. Incredulously, I asked, "Do you honestly think you can find someone to live with who will care about you more and treat you better than we do?"

Here's the thing. Maybe I was right. But you can't reason with a shrieking howler monkey. The end. He pushed past me and was gone. His sister stood there begging him not to go, and I said out loud, "He'll be home before dark. He doesn't have anywhere else to go."  In my mind I was telling him, be home before dark. In his mind, I'm guessing, he heard a challenge.

I was once a runner away from home, and I remember those feelings well. I just knew it would teach my parents a valuable lesson about treating me so badly if I disappeared. "I'll show them!" I shouted, shaking my tiny fist to the heavens. I also remember how that bravado faded the farther I got from the property line and the closer it got to nightfall. I never made it far. I was too scared. I was banking on that as I watched my son pedal down our street on his bike. I know him. He just needed time to cool off. He knows the streets in our neighborhood like the back of his hand. He was safe, and he would be back. My heart ached, but I wasn't scared. Yet.

It was 7:00, still two hours until dark. After 15 minutes or so, his sister and I went out and drove around the neighborhood. We saw him a short way from the house, but when he saw the car, he took off in another direction, and we lost him again. I took it as a good sign that he was still in the neighborhood, and we went back to the house to wait. By 8:00, I was worried enough that I had called Ashby home from his evening activity, and he was out driving around. No sign. By 9:00, it was almost dark, so we called the police. By 10:00, our street and surrounding areas were being searched by law enforcement. No sign. His picture had been circulated, friends had been called, all his regular haunts had been checked. No sign. 11:00 came and went.

As midnight approached, I could feel myself starting to crumble. I'm not what you call "good in a crisis" - yes, I put Bennett Brauer-style air quotes around that. I just get paralyzed and shut down. While Ashby coordinated with the police and went out searching, I stood on my front porch for five hours, staring at the street and willing my boy to come back. I watched cars drive back and forth, watched the sun go down, watched police cars converge and then scatter, hoped that every light coming down the street was a car delivering my child home. But it wasn't. Over and over again, it wasn't. The nagging discomfort of having him out of my sight, whereabouts unknown, turned slowly into abject fear. I know this boy and his fears, and all of the harmless possibilities became less and less possible as time went on. My heart felt crushed. I could barely breathe. I got a tiny glimpse of just how broken I would be if anything ever happened to one of my children.

Then, just after midnight, I got a call that I'll remember forever. "Mrs. Ray? This is the manager of the Burger King on Highway 70 in Durham. I have your son here. He wants you to know he's very remorseful."

Look, I'll be honest - I had questions. Not the least of which was, uhhhh, we live in Raleigh, so what the fuck? Like how? And where? And what?? But in that moment, nothing mattered except my boy was alive and safe. Because that. He is my heart. I need that! And I felt it jump back to life. Five hours worth of pent up emotions came spilling out, and I was sobbing uncontrollably, not recognizing the sounds coming out of my mouth, unable to process what was happening as the Durham County Sheriff's Office and Raleigh PD coordinated his trip home.

I haven't felt that kind of raw emotion at least since I first got sober and discovered actual feelings, and maybe not ever, since I'm quite certain my life never mattered to me the way my kids' lives do. And maybe we all needed it - a wake up call, a shift in perspective - to realize just how good we've got it, how much genuine love and affection we have between us, and how we can try a little harder to understand each other better.

A police car rolled up to deliver the boy and his bike home around 1:00 a.m. He was scraped up and smelly, but otherwise none the worse for wear. There are no words to explain how it felt to have him back in our arms. Over the next 24 hours, he filled us in on some of the details of his adventure. Craziness like riding his bike alone for miles and miles down a busy highway (he's never ridden on streets outside of our neighborhood); falling off his bike and pulling gravel out of his own elbow wounds (he's never not fallen apart at the sight of blood); busking in a parking lot for cash and band-aids (he has zero experience as a performer); buying dinner with his proceeds and hanging at a Burger King until closing (midnight - hello - way past his bedtime.) Who is this kid anyway?

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little impressed with how much more successfully he ran away than I ever did, even though the mere thought of how many things could have gone wrong is absolutely terrifying. In the end, I suspect he learned more on his first day of 7th grade than he anticipated. Not one of us imagined his first day of school picture would be used for a missing juvenile bulletin later that night. I think the world seems a lot bigger to him, home seems a lot safer, and he has a better understanding of how much he's loved. Hopefully that's a tool he can hold onto for later.

I like to think I'm always learning. Maybe that's why I second guess so much. I've never been afraid to admit to my children that parents make mistakes. I make mistakes. A shit ton of mistakes. Frankly, most of parenting seems like a crap shoot to me. The way I see it, my mistake on Monday evening was trying to argue the boy into understanding my point of view. Because, shrieking howler monkey. Know your audience, right? I'm a grown up (ish), and I should have let it go (letting it go is hard, you guys!) But what I learned on Monday evening is, when mistakes are made, and things go sideways, I am surrounded by a community that comes together. Friends, neighbors, family, law enforcement - we were completely overwhelmed and grateful to everyone that jumped in to help and didn't quit until our child was safe at home.

When we tucked the kids into bed early Tuesday morning and finally stopped to breathe, Ashby jokingly mentioned that it's too bad I'm an alcoholic because if ever there was a time for a drink . . . And I felt grateful all over again because that thought hadn't even crossed my mind. So today I'm going to hold my babies a little closer and be grateful that my heart is whole. And though I'm still a trainwreck of an alcoholic who can't express and process difficult emotions, I'm going to be additionally grateful that drinking away my feelings was not only not my first instinct, but it wasn't an instinct at all.

So, how did the first day of school go? Not as planned, I suppose, but it could have been a lot worse. 

The Comfort Zone

As I approach five years of sobriety, I've been thinking a lot about how different things are now. For so long I wanted to get sober. I tried and failed over and over again. I was as surprised as anyone when it finally seemed to stick. In that first year, I actually thought things were pretty good. Compared to rock bottom, things were in fact looking up. I wasn't actively killing myself, which was a positive change. But looking back, I can see clearly now that it was not exactly a carefree time.

More than once in those early days, someone would tell me I needed to do things - like share in meetings or publicly tell my story. Let me not bore you with all of the many reasons why those are terrible ideas - reasons that include my functional inability to use mouth words competently in a public speaking situation - but this was their rationale: "You have to do things that are outside of your comfort zone." Those words have been bouncing around in my head and irritating me for damn near five years now. Why? Because a) don't tell me what to do, and b) where the fuck is this comfort zone, and how do I get in it in the first place?

At the time I just thought it was uncool to shame and guilt me about not doing things that make me insanely uncomfortable, because being in a meeting and with other alcoholics was supposed to make me feel better. These were my people, the ones who are like me and get me, so why were they making me feel bad? Frankly, it almost pushed me away from meetings altogether, because not sharing made me feel bad about myself, and feeling bad about myself is not something I needed help with. I submit that we in recovery could possibly try to be more accepting of the fact that not everyone is cut from the same cloth, and not every suggestion works for every person, and shaming is rarely the answer. Unless the question is "What's a shitty thing to do to someone who is already scared and vulnerable?"

Nevertheless, I stuck it out and kept going to meetings. I was doing the things that worked for me and getting the support I needed from people I connected with. Over time, I learned to let the comfort zone admonishments go - at least enough to continue going to meetings, eventually even without guilt. But upon further reflection, it actually goes much deeper than that for me. Let's revisit point b) . . . seriously, where is the aforementioned comfort zone? Where is my comfort zone? Is there one? My whole life has been a series of uncomfortable events. I don't remember a time before I got sober when I was ever comfortable being me. 

As far back as I can remember, I never felt like I was okay. I didn't trust that my own instincts were right or good, so I did what I thought others expected of me or behaved the way I thought others would. Outwardly, I never expressed myself in a way that reflected what was happening inside. As a result, I never truly felt known or accepted in any real sense. I never looked at myself or figured out what I wanted in life because I was too busy pretending to be what someone else wanted. Of course, not being real isn't comfortable because there's this constant, nagging fear of being found out. Drinking fixed nothing, but it made me not care or think about the fear for short periods of time, and that I guess was all the comfort zone I had for a long, long time.

Then I stopped drinking, for real. Physically I felt better, but my head was all over the place. It was overwhelming trying to be all better all at once. Because that's crazy. And unrealistic. And exhausting. And I was still doing it! Putting all of my effort into being what I thought others expected me to be and behaving the way I thought others in recovery would behave. Which is why it really got to me when I was criticized for not doing things a person in recovery "should" do. Get out of my comfort zone? I wasn't in my comfort zone, and now that booze was out of my life, I didn't even know where to begin to find it.  

My first year of recovery was angst-ridden. I was trying so hard to overachieve at sobriety. I struggled with not doing the program "right". I dragged my feet on getting a sponsor or calling people (because people things give me anxiety), so I beat myself up over that. I felt guilty if I didn't share at a meeting, so I set arbitrary goals to share x number of times per week and then inevitably felt bad about myself after because it was inevitably bad. I was fearful. I heard about people relapsing all the time, sometimes dying before they made it back. I didn't want that to be me, but I didn't know how or why recovery worked. And if I didn't know how it worked, how could I be sure it wouldn't stop working? I wanted guarantees. I wanted comfort. A whole fucking zone of it, if possible.

I've realized a few things between year one and year five. Of course there are no guarantees. I hope I make it to my five year sober birthday tomorrow, but I can't guarantee it. A little bit of fear is okay. I'm scared of what would happen if I drink again. I should be. It almost killed me. But the fear of not doing recovery "right" will only lead me back to that old habit of pretending to meet others' expectations. However good that may look on the surface, it's not real recovery, and if I continued to approach it that way, I would be as much of a fraud as I was when I was drunk. I would never know what it's like to be understood and valued for who I really am, and that is transformative.

Maybe it just took time and an open mind for all of that to sink in; time to let go of the anger and misery that came before. Oh, and a tremendous amount of self-reflection, behavior modification, and surrounding myself with people who get it - definitely that stuff. But the upshot is I feel like I'm okay today, and that's not nothing. It's a whole lot of something. I'm comfortable that the way I do recovery is working for me, even if it's not perceived as "right". I'm comfortable that I am of service to others, even if I don't say words out loud in public. I'm often comfortable being me, even if I'm not everyone's cup of tea. Fuck tea anyway. I guess I'm finding my comfort zone. Maybe it won't take another five years to step outside of it. 

We don't all get miracles

I enjoyed being at a meeting last weekend where I saw three people in my recovery circle pick up chips for 9, 23, and 28 years of sobriety. There is so much hope in the experience of others in recovery. Several years ago, I didn't think it was possible for me. They say you have to stick around until the miracle happens, and when I see people with that much time in recovery or look back on my own 4+ years, I know that miracles do happen. 

Unfortunately, they don't always happen, and we don't all get second chances. Addiction is a terrible disease that robs people of their lives, sometimes by destroying everything worth living for and sometimes literally ending them. I don't need to go over the statistics. They're available, and they're depressing. Sadly, I've also seen too many real flesh and blood friends suffer and die from this disease - two of them just in the last two months. And with each one come the questions. Why? Why didn't they "get it"? Why them and not me? How am I different?

The answer, of course, is I'm not. We're all just people who share the same disease. As with other diseases, some people are sicker than others, some seek treatment and some don't, some respond to treatment and some don't, some find the right combination of treatments that work, and some are too sick to even try. I'm no different. I was just lucky to live long enough to see the coming together of circumstances that put me on a path to recovery, and that's where the miracle happens. Only if you manage to get that far.

Many thoughts ran through my head recently when I became aware that an old friend was dying from the disease that we share. As the days went on, I felt more and more sad and more and more angry. It wasn't fair. Not just in the sense that she wouldn't live long enough or be lucky enough to experience her miracle, but because she left behind so many who may never understand why she didn't get it and that it wasn't her choice. As she lay dying in the hospital, I looked back at old messages - conversations we shared about alcoholism and recovery. These are her words:

It makes me so mad at myself for doing the wrong thing when I'm fully aware of what the right thing is. It's just not as easy as one might think, huh? And, now, on top of my self loathing, I have an unbearable shame.

These aren't the words of someone who chose to party instead of being a responsible adult. This wasn't someone having a good time. This was someone who was sick and suffering. Someone who felt hopeless, like she had nothing left to give. And I get that, because I lived it. One of the reasons I started this blog was to try to foster understanding, but it's easier to be supportive of recovery than it is to understand the disease. I imagine some people believe it's just a matter of making the choice to stop. I assure you that it's not.

I wish I could explain it in a way that made sense to someone who hasn't experienced addiction, but I don't know that it's possible because it defies explanation. When I was at my rock bottom, I could have no more "just stopped" than if I had cancer and tried to stop having it. I was sick - hopelessly, helplessly sick. The difference is, I was ashamed of being sick, and probably by many, I would be blamed for being sick.

She has everything going for her. Why is she making that choice? Why won't she stop for her husband and kids? These are legitimate questions - that I asked myself over and over again. I can only speak from my experience when I say I didn't choose, and I couldn't stop. I love my family dearly, and being a mom is the greatest joy in my life. Anyone who knows me will tell you I love those little bastards with all my heart and have since the day they were born. But being sick distorted my thoughts so much that I believed they would be better off without me. I believed they would be happier if I just let my addiction kill me. Let that one sink in. It's hard for me to wrap my mind around that now, but I've read those thoughts in my own words - scrawled in a journal I kept in the days immediately before and while I was in treatment. Those aren't rational thoughts. They're not the thoughts of someone who likes to drink to have a good time. I hated it, but I kept doing it. I had lost the power to choose and no longer cared if I lived or died. I thought my precious children, whom I love more than life, would be better off without a mother. I was sick.

But here's the worst part - I could have easily died in that moment. Withdrawal from alcohol is no joke. Google it. I did. Probably a thousand times. I could have died from my alcoholism in that moment or a ton of moments before, or since if I hadn't been lucky enough to get well. And if I died, maybe my family would have been too ashamed to let people know why. Maybe the majority of you would have blamed me for choosing to drink and die. Maybe my kids would have believed for the rest of their lives that they weren't enough to make me stop. And all of that breaks my heart.

I know life's not fair. Believe me, I tell my kids that very thing all the time. I can usually accept that and move on. But it makes me angry and sad to see what this disease takes from people. I hate to see my friends die without dignity, without compassion or understanding, and without the comfort of being surrounded by loved ones. I hate that the people left behind may blame their loved one for being sick, that they may blame themselves for not doing things differently, and that they may spend the rest of their lives wondering why they didn't matter enough to make their loved one stop. I hate the disease for destroying the lives of those who have it and those who love them, and I hate that it's so shrouded in shame and secrecy that it's hard to generate a better understanding of it by society as a whole. I think we do a good job of understanding each other within recovery communities, but the destruction caused by the disease goes so far beyond those walls. So should the discussion.   

Every time a friend passes, I know without a doubt that my story could have ended the same way. I am no different. I just got well before I died. I am so grateful to have been given a second chance to live. I just hope that sharing my experience may help some of you understand those who never get that second chance.

I Surrender

I mean that generally. I surrender. It's something I do now. For me, it was the first step into recovery and the hardest step - not to make, because it was the only place I had left to go by the time I got to my rock bottom, but to wrap my head around and embrace. Surrender and acceptance are certainly subjects that are frequently discussed in recovery circles and at meetings, and I'm sure they mean many different things to different people. I'm slowly learning to surrender as I understand it, and it's quickly improving the quality of my life. I suppose I once equated surrender with weakness, with giving up, but it's only through surrender that I've become stronger and able to move forward.

Surrender - it sounds so dramatic. But truly it is just a new way of thinking. I admit I am easily frustrated, and my frustration comes when reality doesn't quite live up to my expectations. Which happens. A lot. I have said before that I'm an all or nothing kind of girl. It's the way my brain is wired. If I have a new thing (let's say a couch) and someone (let's say one of my kids) gets a tiny smudge on it (let's say it's happened), my first instinct is, "Well, it's ruined!" But come on - ruined? We can still sit on it, which is the idea, and, truth be told, knowing my family, it won't be long before it's more smudge than couch anyway. That is the cold, hard reality, and I'm okay with it because I want my home to be comfortable, not pristine. I mean, cleanliness is nice, but sometimes life gets messy. Fighting it (with strict couch regulations?) mostly just makes everyone tense and unable to enjoy the couch. Life gets unexpectedly smudgy all the time, but I want to live my life around all the smudginess, not be paralyzed by it.

Surrender is accepting my lack of control over most things in my world, like when and where my kids are going to smudge up my shit. I walk through life with expectations, big and small, every day. When things don't go my way, and those expectations are shattered, I have two choices - accept it and adjust my expectations or fight it and try to force the world to fit my mold. There was a time when I chose to fight every unwinnable fight, which led to frustration and disappointment, which led to more and more drinking to numb the anger and resentments, which led to complete and utter exhaustion and defeat. In my struggle for control, I lost control of everything, and I lost my will to fight. When I finally surrendered, I felt more relieved than I ever had in my life. Aha!

I have often told people that going away to inpatient treatment was instrumental in jump-starting real recovery for me. From a 12-step perspective, I really had no problem for some time admitting to myself that I had no power over alcohol and that my life was unmanageable. That happened months earlier, when I first attempted outpatient treatment, and to a lesser degree for years before when I would try to quit drinking on my own. The sticking point was moving beyond that first step. In order to do that, I had to accept that help would come from a power greater than myself and then turn my will over to that power. Forget the angst I felt about defining that power (which I came to find out wasn't necessary for me), turning my will over to anything or anyone seemed impossible. Going to inpatient treatment forced my hand.

I'm going to admit something right now that I'm not very proud of, but what the hell. I was recently watching an episode of some Kardashians take over the world or some such nonsense. I know, I know, but I was working out, and it was on, and . . . look, don't judge me. Anyway, the episode revolved around a character's downward spiral into the depths of his addiction. It was so hauntingly familiar - the downplaying, the rationalizing, the spiraling out of control when the drinks started flowing, the trip to the emergency room, the fear, the shame and regret, followed by the inevitable waffling over how to deal with what has obviously become a problem. Bottom line - what I'm telling you is that the Kardashians brought me to tears, and not in the traditional Kardashian sense. It was actually relatable and reminded me just how difficult it was to surrender that first time.

The day I walked into the treatment center in Virginia, I certainly felt the magnitude of it. Ashby drove away, leaving me with strangers in unfamiliar surroundings with no means of transportation or real communication with the outside world. But the hardest part had actually been the days leading up to it - making the decision. To be sure, I was ready, but I still struggled. How could I walk away from my life for 28 whole days? How could I leave my job at a very busy time with no notice? How could I be away from my kids for so long - longer than I'd ever been away from them since they were born? How could I miss Mother's Day? Who was going to write the checks for our bills that month? Who was going to do my half of the chores? What about that race I was registered for? What in the world was I going to tell people about where I'd been when I came back? And those concerns all seemed so legit at the time, but I really only needed to ask myself one question: "Do I want to go away for 28 days now, or do I want to give up everything and go away forever?" It seems like a no-brainer, but going through all those questions, explaining it to the kids, actually saying goodbye and walking out the door, and a very surreal three-hour drive into the middle of nowhere, VA . . . it was a gut-wrenching experience that I can still feel to my core when I think about it today. And yet, somewhere in that decision-making process, I surrendered. I accepted that this was my best and maybe only chance to save everything that mattered to me, and with that realization a tremendous weight was lifted.

Over the next four weeks, I turned my will over in a very real way. I no longer had the illusion that I was in control. My daily routine was decided for me - I was told when to get up, when to eat, when to go to class, when to do chores, when to go to bed, and a whole bunch of other things I wasn't allowed to do. Maybe more importantly, life at home went on without me. Successfully. Work, home, kids - they all went on just fine without me. It was humbling and comforting at the same time and probably something I needed to see to believe - that it was possible to let go without losing. 

As many a control freak will tell you, the reason it's so hard to let go is the tremendous fear that our worlds will crumble if we're not micromanaging them. Going away to treatment gave me an opportunity not many have - to step completely outside of my world, observe that it can function and thrive without me, and then be allowed back in. I had solid proof that I wasn't that important. Knowing that I fully wasn't in control of anything outside of myself gave me the freedom to focus on what I had neglected for years - everything on the inside and how I connect with and relate to others in my life - the stuff that matters. This was the work that would make it more and more possible for me to surrender and accept the things I can't control.

Surrender happens on a daily basis - from my acceptance of my disease to dealing with smudges. That doesn't mean it's always easy. I still have the urge to fight it when things don't go my way. About a month ago, I realized I was having an issue with my achilles. It was stiff and achy in the mornings, and running seemed to irritate it. Although I've been fortunate not to have any serious injuries in the past, I have a history of denial and pushing through pain when something comes up. I fight it. I openly admit that I spent about a week pretending I wasn't feeling what I was feeling and continuing to run while aggressively willing the pain to go away. Surprise - it didn't work. During that week I felt an old, familiar feeling - the angst of fighting the inevitable, trying to control the uncontrollable. And when I finally admitted to my coach there was a problem and made an appointment with a doctor, I felt that familiar flood of relief. Surrender. Of course it's better to invest a small amount of time in rest and treatment now in order to prevent a more destructive problem later. Obviously. The fact that it only took me a week to get to obvious is major progress.  

I used to be so afraid of the whole concept of surrender. I thought it meant giving up, quitting, compromising myself, but that hasn't been my experience. It just means I can accept the messiness of life and stop struggling to seize control of it, and in that acceptance I find moments of peace and contentment. By surrendering, I haven't lost. Instead, I've gained more than I ever thought possible. 

   

To race or not to race?

"What are your plans for next year?" That question loomed large in my head back when I was feeling slumpy. Of course, in my circle of friends, that means, "What races are you planning to do next year?" I've been thinking about it for a while. I guess my first reaction was, maybe none? Yes, with a question mark. Then I figured that could have been the slump talking, so I sat with it for a while, and now I'm thinking, maybe none.

Racing over the last few years has been a great experience for me. I've accomplished some of the big things I always wanted to do but thought would take much longer - doing an Ironman (and another and another), qualifying for Boston, running Boston. Hello?! I thought I would have to at least reach senior citizen status to have a Boston qualifying time within reach. I've become a better and more efficient runner than I ever thought possible, and I'm not even being conceited. I just kind of thought I sucked. On occasion, someone will ask me how I've managed to improve as much as I have over the years. Really it's a multi-step plan. First, you have to start running and doing races, and then you have to keep it up, no matter what. Then (and this part is key) you have to be a raging alcoholic - like, genetically - and you have to pursue that into the depths of hell. On your slow return from rock bottom, channel all of your obsessive energy and early sobriety angst into your training. Boom - instantly improved running. But whatever, I guess some people aren't willing to work for their PRs. I like to go above and beyond. What can I say? Incidentally, it also helps significantly to get a coach, if possible, after sobering up to rein in your crazy. 

In all seriousness though, I never considered not running. Even in the darkest times, I ran. I ran hungover, I ran drunk, but I ran. The longest I went without was when I was in treatment, which was difficult. It struck me that a lot of people there had a strange assortment of personal items with them, having either packed in a rock bottom haze or had their things packed by a family member who wasn't greatly concerned if their loved one had matching outfits or underwear. I packed myself, and I didn't bring much, but I had running shoes and clothes . . . I'm just saying. I tried to run at first, but we weren't allowed to go outside of a one-block radius. A couple of times I ran around and around and around in circles until it added up to about 3 miles, but the block was so small it was dizzying, the confused staring made me feel awkward, and doing laundry was . . . problematic, so eventually I decided to give it up for the duration of my stay. 

When I got home from treatment, I couldn't wait to get back on my treadmill. My first day back, I ran, and it felt great. It was easy and comfortable. I felt strong and healthy. It wasn't because I was training for something or trying to get anywhere. It was running for the sake of running, for the joy of it, for how it made me feel in the moment. Getting home was great, seeing my family was great, but it was also all a bit scary and stifling, as human interaction can be. The eggshells we were all walking on took time to break down into a new comfort level. But when I laced up and started running that day, I felt free.

I had to decide where to go from there, and I wanted to go everywhere - so many races, so little time. I wanted to push myself to accomplish new challenges and new distances. I wanted to keep chasing and catching that feeling of freedom, to ease the discomfort of learning to live in recovery. I wanted to be the healthiest, fittest, sober-est person in recovery. Because I live in extremes. Since that time, the longest break I've taken from training is . . . not at all. Skipped workouts are not a thing that exists in my world - not even when I had shingles, and I promise you that was a shitty, shitty, painful mistake. And that's not dedication or badassedness or smart, frankly. It's a glaring character defect. Sometimes (a lot of the times) I have trouble recognizing when it's in my best interest to take it down a notch.

Three and a half years and a lot of races later, I'm back to the same question. Where do I go from here? What are my plans for next year? Over and over, I come back with the same answer. I've found myself too many times this year dragging ass out of bed on a long training day and asking myself, "Why am I doing this?" I don't need to do it for fitness. I don't need it to get the meditative and therapeutic benefits I get from running. Those things are critical to maintaining my wellness, but I can get all that from shorter workouts. Long days are about racing, and while I love racing, it's not something I feel compelled to do right now. There was a purpose in racing for me. I never felt like it was a waste of time. I like to set a goal and achieve it. I like to test and push my own limits. In my recovery, I've appreciated the motivation and structure and sense of accomplishment that training and racing has given me, but I feel like the time has come to take a step back. 

There have been reservations in my mind because I think in all or nothings. No racing? But there are so many other races I want to do; I might be able to get a little faster; I haven't even tried an ultra yet! But I'm guessing those races will still be out there in 2016, and some of them will even be willing to take my registration fee. In the meantime, I might get to sleep a little later on weekends, have more adventures with my family before my children realize I'm not cool, spend more time supporting my family and friends at their races, and even learn to be still and not do anything. And of course stepping back from racing doesn't mean I won't be running. I'll just be enjoying the journey for a while. The destination will sort itself out.   

My boy

My son is 10 years old. He's my first born, my boy, and he's a great kid. He's very much a little boy at times, but he's an old soul, with an emotional depth and maturity level that catches me off guard at times. Last week, he was officially diagnosed with Tourette Syndrome. Life was no different after the diagnosis than before - the symptoms he's experienced for years now were the same, and we weren't advised to do anything differently. The diagnosis was not at all unexpected. Still, it really, really bummed me out. Something about attaching a name to it made it real in a way it wasn't before, and who wants their child to have a syndrome? It sounds ominous, right?

It's not. We first noticed his tics in the summer before he started third grade, a little over two years ago. At first it was his eyes darting back and forth. It took a while before we realized it was involuntary, and he didn't know he was doing it, so we stopped yelling at him to cut it out. That's called good parenting. Eventually that one subsided, but he started making noises - little humming sounds, almost like he was clearing his throat. When that went away, it was the eyes again, sometimes darting, sometimes rolling, or it was some other little noise he was making. The frequency comes and goes. Some days it's not noticeable at all; some days it's fairly constant.

Tourette Syndrome is a spectrum disorder, and it appears that he is on the mild end of the spectrum. It is thought to be genetic, and interestingly, when we really started to think about it, it is entirely possible that my husband and I both have a parent or grandparent who may have had it. According to the doctor, many people are never diagnosed. An involuntary tic may just be seen as a habit, and some people do age out of it. 

I guess the bottom line is that it's not a big fucking deal. It doesn't affect his ability to do anything and everything he wants to do. It's just a thing about him that he can't change, and if there's one thing I learned from Dirty Dancing, it's that if you love someone, you have to love all the things about them. Actually, that is a lie. I learned nothing from Dirty Dancing. I just wanted an excuse to reference that scene so I could also reference this reenactment of the scene performed by Jerry Orbach and Conan O'Brien, which I enjoy immensely for some reason. RIP, Jerry.

So why was I so bummed out by the diagnosis that changed nothing and wasn't a big deal? Because I'm afraid. I don't want my child to be different in a way that will make things difficult for him. I don't want kids to make fun of him and give him a hard time and hurt his feelings. I'm laying my fears all over that poor kid. I had to stop and think about that. Do I want my children to strive for sameness? To fear anything that makes them stand out? Of course not. We're all different, and I always want my kids to feel free to be uniquely themselves. So, why should I be afraid of any part of who they are? Especially when they're not.

We've talked to him about the tics and about how people react to them at times. Before we took him to the neurologist, he told us if there was medication to take the tics away, he didn't want it. Because they are a part of who he is. He thinks of them as a superpower that helps him know who his real friends are. When people give him a hard time, he rationally explains to them that he can't help it, and that's just the way it is. He doesn't give it any power. He doesn't allow it to limit him. He participates enthusiastically in school, he runs for student council, he tries out for school musicals, he sings in the chorus, and he'll play any sport with anyone any time. He puts himself out there, unabashedly. He put the diagnosis in perspective long before we ever got it. That amazing 10-year-old kid. I only hope to be more like him when I grow up.

Socializing 101

I've been invited to several social-type functions lately, and I'm happy to say that I've handled them quite well. Not trying to brag, but that's big progress for me. No question, I'm still an awkward, uncomfortable introvert who feels physically and emotionally drained by social interaction, but it doesn't make me long for invisibility or make me want to hide in the bathroom to avoid talking to people any more. And yes, I actually hid in the bathroom for 15 minutes once at my own party - because making people wonder why I was in the bathroom for so long seemed preferable to interacting with the people I invited into my home - whaaat? Let's just say socializing is not my strong suit.  

It's fascinating what you learn from watching your own children. Earlier this year, when we were in Boston for the marathon, we took the kids to the hotel pool for a swim. My 10-year-old hit the hot tub, and when he returned, he told me about the nice man he met who was also from Raleigh and was also running the marathon. They'd had a nice chat during their soak. Then recently, when we were at a party at someone's house, he wandered off and struck up a conversation with one of my colleague's wives. Turns out she is a speech therapist at his school. She's never worked with him and didn't know him, but I guess he recognized her and introduced himself.

These incidents tell me at least two things: 1) Someone didn't get the stranger danger memo, so parenting fail on my part, and 2) Dammit, my 10-year-old son has better small talk and socializing skills with other grown ups than I do. Meanwhile, my 8-year-old clings to me or her dad, and when someone addresses her, she smiles like a weirdo, says nothing, and turns to us, desperately pleading with her eyes for someone to bail her out of this painfully uncomfortable situation. Now that, I can relate to.

I'm not really what you'd call a people person. In fact, my motto used to be "God, I hate people so much". It's not clever or catchy, but whatever - I was probably drunk when I thought of it. Turns out, I don't hate people. I even like a lot of people. What I claimed was disdain for everything and everyone was really fear. I feared other people because I didn't like myself, and hating them first meant I didn't have to care what they thought. But I did care. Obsessively so. I had this debilitating fear of being judged, so I pretended to be what other people wanted, and then I had this debilitating fear of being found out. Drinking, for a long time, was the only thing that eased my discomfort. It was definitely the only way I could imagine interacting with others in a social situation. But it also drove me further into hiding. My alcoholism became a big part of my secret identity - Superwoman by day, Superdrunk by night - until days and nights started to blur and everything fell apart. One of the scariest things about getting sober was realizing that I was going to have to get real, and fuuuuuck, what were people going to think of the real me? Certainly, socializing would never be an option again. Or so I thought.

And that is what I love about my recovery community. They made it possible for me to baby step into being me and to be able to sit comfortably with that, even in a room full of people. They stunned me by accepting me, even after I let down my walls. They  showed me love when I felt most unlovable. I've heard it said and believe it to be true that the more fucked up you are, the more the recovery community will embrace you. After a lifetime of putting my best, fake foot forward, I led with the worst I had to offer, and that's how I met some of the best, real friends I've ever had.

I think that's the real magic in recovery for me. That ability to connect and relate was stunted for me for most of my life - buried under fear, then numbed by alcohol. Recovery helped me start to dig out - made me believe I could have an interaction with another person without fearing judgment. There is a refreshing openness and honesty surrounding my friendships with people who are also in recovery, but that dynamic has translated to other relationships in my life. Turns out I can be real and honest with regular people too. Over time, it led me to be more forgiving and loving toward myself as well. I mean, there's some good stuff under all that dysfunction.

Is everyone going to like the real me? No, but that's okay. I don't like everyone I meet, sometimes for actual reasons and sometimes for no reason at all. That's life. There was a time when it was offensive to me if someone didn't like the facade I put up, because that was the sole purpose of the facade - to win approval - and that's all I had. Now I can appreciate the real relationships I have and not waste time and energy on the ones I don't. And if you don't like me, I still won't hate you, because what's the point?

And all of that makes socializing a hell of a lot easier than it used to be. Will I ever have the skills of my 10-year-old son? Sadly, probably not. I'm still going to stand awkwardly in a corner when I don't know anyone. There are still going to be awkward silences when I attempt small talk. I'm still going to laugh awkwardly at inappropriate things. Basically, I'm awkward. But I'm owning it, and I no longer feel so uncomfortable being me. Sometimes, I even thoroughly enjoy it - all without a drink in my hand.  

Embracing a slump

I'm in a bit of a slump. Not in a specific area - in all areas. I'm unmotivated to train, unmotivated to work, unmotivated to socialize, unmotivated to get out of bed in the morning. I'm not talking depression-level unmotivated, but more like I'm seriously half-assing everything and feeling irritated that I can't get fired up about anything. It's been going on for a couple of weeks, and, to be honest, I'm pretty sick of it - that's right, I also have a bad attitude.

The thing is, slumps happen. Life's not all sunshine and rainbows and unicorns.  Well, maybe if we're talking this guy: 

But that's okay, because I've learned in my recovery that I have to get real if I want contentment in my life. And real is flawed. I like to think that in recovering from my addiction, I am also making progress in recovering from a bad case of perfectionism. For me, the two go hand in hand. It was never about being perfect; it was about looking perfect from the outside. It was about hiding the truth and projecting a socially acceptable image. It was isolating, because however impressed people may have been with what I projected, it was never real, so I was never able to connect with others in any sort of authentic way.

When I was very new in recovery, I was able to identify some of my perfectionist tendencies and make changes. Mostly, it was the obvious stuff - like holidays. It had always been my policy to go big with holidays, which is sort of a no-brainer for an alcoholic. Holidays were a great excuse to drink excessively - even normal people do it. But also, creating the picture perfect holiday, in my mind, was what made it special and happy for my family. Looking back, I realize that it was more about making up for the fact that I wasn't really "there" and about literally getting the perfect picture so we could all look back and believe that these were the happiest times of our lives.

What I have since discovered is that I don't give a shit about getting the perfect picture. Pictures are nice, yes, but making a legitimately happy memory is infinitely more valuable, whether there is photographic evidence or not. After all, what am I trying to prove and to whom?

This year, for my kids' birthdays, I let them have the parties they wanted. They weren't fancy, and they weren't the parties I would have necessarily chosen myself, but we all had a genuinely good time. We completely forgot to get party favors for my son's birthday. Guess what? He didn't notice. He still had the time of his life playing laser tag, and bonus - the other kids' parents didn't have a bunch of useless crap to throw away later. My daughter's cake was . . . well, this:

A bit of a ninja turtle green mess, but she and I made it together, and that's the part we'll remember - the part we would have missed out on a few years ago, when I would have stayed up all night making the picture perfect party cake, alone and drunk. These parties were real, stuff went wrong, the kids loved them, we were all happy, and we didn't get a single picture that was worth a damn. 

So I've started to ask myself about other parts of my life. My work, my relationships, my recovery, my training . . . what do I really want out of these things, and am I working toward that, or am I still just going for the perfect picture? It's complicated and I think one of the reasons for this slump of late. The reason I'm trying to embrace the slump is that I think it's nothing more than a sign that I'm no longer fully satisfied by the status quo, and some type of change and growth is imminent. If I'm open and honest and willing to delve into it. Which is exciting but also scary, and scary makes me feel more . . . slumpy.

A slump tends to make me withdraw, and I have to be on my guard about that. When someone asks me how I'm doing, and I reply with "fine", it's not a deep and meaningful conversation, and it's also usually a lie. While this is perfectly acceptable with the majority of people I come across in my daily life, when I start saying that to my friends and family, one thing is certain: I'm not fine. That response is designed to keep people out and keep me isolated with my pain and discomfort, which is not a safe place for me to be.

On the up side, a slump is real. There are no highs in life without the lows, and there is no growth without sometimes difficult self-reflection and self-examination. So I'll embrace this one and use the tools I've come to rely on in my recovery to figure out what it's telling me. I'll talk to friends and family and relish those connections because they're where I find some measure of contentment, even in a slump. I'll tell on myself for feeling irritable and sad and frustrated, because negotiating what's in my head on my own is definitely the worst possible call. I'll keep moving forward, even if I'm not giving it 100% right now. And I'll do my best to be real, because the picture doesn't matter to me any more. 

Leadville - an epic adventure with a twist of recovery

I try to limit my use of the word "epic" because it is so overused these days and more often than not in hyperbolic fashion. When my 10-year-old throws a football a considerable distance, categorizing it as epic is a bit of an overstatement. That being said, the experience I had recently traveling to Colorado and crewing for my husband, Ashby, at the Leadville Trail 100 Run truly was epic, in my opinion, and it was well worth the wait. For those of you who don't know, Ashby is not just a runner - he is an ultrarunner, which is a little bit crazy, and he just finished (on his third attempt) the Leadville Trail 100, which is a little bit crazy on a whole other level. You can read about the details of the race and his experience with it here. 

My job this year, as in the last two years, was to crew for Ashby during the race. In the past, I have done this alone or while toting two small children around with me (I'm still trying to figure out how/why we thought that was a good idea.) This year, I had friends along to help. My friend, Paige, agreed months ago to come along this year and help me crew. I'm not sure what possessed her to agree to such a thing. After all, she is not really interested in pursuing ultrarunning herself (although she is an athlete and runner), and there are no blood ties between her and Ashby that obligate her in any way to assist him in achieving his dreams. But that's Paige - always a supportive and generous friend - and I was looking forward to the experience so much more getting to share it with her. Ashby and I have traveled to Leadville together the last two years, but it's a 30-hour race, where the plan involves seeing him seven times along the way for a few minutes at a time. Crewing is a lonely business when you're a crew of one.

Our third crew member was Karl, a friend from Raleigh, who also planned to pace Ashby for most of the second half of the race. Karl is the husband of one of my colleagues, and I hadn't actually spent a lof of time with him before. Karl came into the mix sort of at the last minute. He has only recently gotten into ultrarunning and has become one of Ashby's more adventurous training partners. He had some personal interest in experiencing Leadville first hand, but it was still remarkably generous for him to take time out of his life and away from his family to fly out to Leadville for the weekend. He was all about being there for Ashby and attending to whatever need he had, and I think he made a world of difference in helping Ashby get to the finish line comfortably. 

To elaborate on the crazy, running a race at altitude requires months of preparation  - weird preparation, like sleeping in a hypoxic tent or, in the alternative, sleeping in a mask attached to a compressor that has the same effect. Also, training with a mask on to limit the amount of oxygen you get during strenuous exercise. Basically, there's a lot of mask-wearing. When you hear your 8-year-old daughter's friend ask, "Why does your dad sleep with that thing on his face?" you suddenly realize that possibly this whole thing has gotten out of control. However, that is the level of dedication Ashby has had when it comes to Leadville. It's been a life lesson for the whole family on how to deal with failure; how to accept it with grace; how to learn and grow from it; and how to persevere and conquer the things you fear the most. Our whole family had to come together and support this effort, and we all did what we had to do to make this happen. We hoped anyway. The first time, we were naive, and then we felt defeated. The second time, we thought we actually knew stuff, so we took steps to prepare appropriately, and then we felt defeated. Now, the third time, I wanted to believe it would happen - that the new preparation had been enough - but I would be lying if I said I felt sure. Nevertheless, I had a lot of hope.  

Ashby had driven to Leadville a week early to acclimate, and Karl had joined him on the Thursday before the race. Paige and I were flying out Friday morning, and I would drive back with Ashby after the race. As a person relatively early in my recovery, travel has been an interesting way for me to observe my progress. I remember the first time I traveled after getting out of treatment. It struck me that my entire approach was different. I didn't choose hotels based on whether they had bars nearby or minibars in the rooms. I didn't have to plan activities around my drinking schedule or make sure activities included alcohol (because before I could see no point of doing an activity if there was no alcohol involved.) When I was drinking, the whole idea of traveling filled me with angst because it messed up my routine. I wouldn't have my regular stores, my regular stash, my regular hiding places. Travel was a burden. The world is vast, but my world was microscopic. Wherever I was in the world, I was still trapped in the same ugly place. There was no freedom from my obsession with alcohol. In very early sobriety, travel continued to make me quite nervous. Being outside of my comfort zone - away from my regular meetings, out of touch with my support network, and out of my predictable routine - felt dangerous and threatening to my recovery. Over time, I have grown to love it, and I've found that I feel safe as long as I'm in a good place with my recovery. I can be present and experience it, and my world has become infinitely bigger and more beautiful. It's very illustrative of the freedom I've been given in recovery. 

Nevertheless, I am still very much a creature of habit, and I knew that this particular trip was going to take me outside of all of my comfort zones. I'm terrified of flying; I would have to fly there on two different planes. I hate being cold; night time in Leadville was going to be around 40 degrees in August, and I strongly feel that 80 degrees in August is a little on the chilly side. I hate not being able to work out; I was off my training routine for what ended up being five days - the horror. I enjoy my sleep; over the course of the five day/four night trip, we only got one real night of sleep. I have no patience and hate waiting; this trip mostly involved waiting on stuff. I hate being in the car; this trip mostly involved being in the car. I hate using public bathrooms and/or using the woods as a bathroom; I think you can see where I'm going with this . . . They tell you in recovery to beware of finding yourself hungry, angry, lonely, or tired, and this trip was likely going to entail a little (or a lot) of each.

Paige and I arrived in Denver around 1:00 in the afternoon on Friday. Karl picked us up and drove us the two hours (actually more like three because of construction traffic) to Leadville where Ashby was attending pre-race meetings. I watched the outside temperature reading on the inside of the car on the drive. It went from 90s in Denver to 40s and back up to the 70s over the course of the drive. WTF? It was just the beginning of the temperature fluctuations we would experience over the next 48 hours. Leadville temperatures would get up into the 70s in the afternoon and as low as 38 during the night, and for some reason 70 degrees in Leadville with clouds feels chilly but without clouds feels like you might burst into flames. Another atmospheric note - the altitude in Leadville is no joke, people. There were times just walking up a slight incline made me stop to catch my breath, and I had a raging headache within a few hours of arriving that didn't go away ever . . . well, until I got back to 5,000 feet in Denver. That being said, the scenery in and around Leadville is breathtaking, and the weather for the weekend was actually probably about as good as it gets for that race. The skies were bright blue and beautiful, it didn't rain, and the temperatures were mostly comfortable with proper layering and unlayering. 

After driving to Leadville, we collected Ashby and drove another 30-40 minutes or so to Buena Vista, where we had reserved a small two-bedroom cabin until Sunday at noon. Although it was 30-40 minutes from the start/finish, it was only about 15-20 mins from the aid station we would be at twice on either side of the midpoint of the race, so it was a pretty good location for a home base. The cabin was not fancy, but it was comfortable. I'd rather not discuss the bathroom. Suffice to say, after my first shower before the race, I opted to forgo showering for the rest of the weekend, and after I stepped in leaking toilet water in my socks, I opted to wear shoes inside for the rest of the weekend.

By the time we were settled, it was time to eat dinner, have a quick crew meeting to go over our race plan, and then go to bed for a few hours. We got up at 2:00 a.m. and hit the road a little before 3:00. Race start was 4:00. I tried to get a sense of how Ashby was feeling, but he didn't say much. I just felt a calmness from him that he didn't have the last two years. I didn't think it was necessarily a confidence that he would finish but rather an acceptance of whatever happened. What he was really feeling, I have no idea, but that's what I imagined.  Meanwhile, I was a bundle of nerves. There is something even more nervewracking about the start of a big race when you're invested but not the one doing it - being left behind to wait and imagine the thousands of things that could go right or wrong out there. And in this race, with those conditions, I do believe there are that many variables. We watched him run off into the night and then shuffled off to the van to drive to Mayqueen, the first aid station we had planned to crew at mile 13.5.

One of the challenges of crewing is trying to figure out how long you want to sit outside and wait. Ashby had provided us with goal time windows for arriving at particular spots, but anything can happen, and you certainly don't want to miss your runner. On the other hand, the car is cozy and warm when the sun's not up and it's 40 degrees outside. Mayqueen also seemed to be the coldest spot on the course, at least from a crew/spectator perspective, so I didn't want to hang around outside any longer than we had to. Parking at Mayqueen is along the road, so we had to walk about a half mile from the car to the aid station. Karl went ahead as soon as we parked. Paige and I stayed a while longer, I ate my second breakfast (because altitude apparently also makes me hungry all the time, even more than I'm already hungry all the time), then we packed our backpacks with crewing necessities and hoofed it in. After waiting about an hour and seeing the sun come up, Ashby came through around 6:30 a.m. He looked good and was in good spirits. We took care of his needs, and off he went. Of course, it was too early to know how things were really going, and I tried not to read too much into anything or make any predictions. He was on the outside of his time goal for that aid station, but I knew the first section had a lot of single-track where passing was difficult, so pace would largely be determined by the crowd. I also knew that it was wise to be conservative at the beginning of such a crazy hard course. We all had a long way to go.

Crewing involves a lot of waiting and watching, watching and waiting, and then more waiting. Finally, you see your runner, and then you have a few minutes of frantic activity, during which you try to assess and gather as much information as possible on how the race is going at that point in time. I tried hard not to overwhelm Ashby with questions, because I know he doesn't deal well with chaos. I generally tried to gauge how he was feeling, how his heartrate was, and whether he was taking in (and keeping in) his nutrition. When we were waiting, I would feel all this anxiety, wondering whether he would come dragging in feeling terrible, hoping he wouldn't say he wasn't eating or, worse, that he'd thrown up. I was desperate for information. After he ran off, there was a sense of relief that I knew where he was and how he was doing, but I was always left with a head full of questions I wished I'd thought to ask. 

When Ashby left Mayqueen, we scooped up discarded items, trash, empty bottles, etc., loaded up our backpacks, hiked back to the van, and made our way to the next aid station, Outward Bound, at mile 24.5. This was the best aid station for parking because it was set up in a field rather than along the side of the road. Visibility was good - you could see the aid station from the car, and you could see the runners coming in from quite a distance. We made fresh bottles, loaded up our gear, and walked in and set up shop. It was mid-morning, and it was starting to warm up and get comfortable. We ran into a friend and chatted for a while. Before long, Ashby came in still looking good but needing to do some blister repair on his feet. It worried me that he had blisters this early on, but he didn't seem all that concerned. Otherwise, he reported that he was feeling strong, his heartrate was on target, and things were going well. It was about to get warm, so he changed into his warm weather gear, we sprayed him down with sunscreen and replenished his nutrition, and he was off again. 

The next stop was Twin Lakes at mile 39.5. The parking again was on the roadside, so we parked, made bottles, loaded up our gear, and hiked in to the aid station. The sun had gotten hot, and all of the shady spots were taken, so we set up in the blazing sun and waited. I was a little nervous about the heat because I know that Ashby traditionally has a hard time with heat, even when he's not climbing mountains at 10,000-12,000 feet. The last two years, he wasn't all that chipper coming through this aid station, which was the last place I saw him before he missed the cut off at the halfway point. This year he blew through shortly after noon looking strong and reporting that things were still going well. No blister complaints. Whew. I wished him luck and told him we would be in the same spot when he came back through at mile 60.5. That would be the next time we would see him, and it would be a while. He had almost 6 hours (6:00 p.m. was the cutoff at the halfway point) to go 10.5 miles. Seems like it should be doable, but it's no ordinary 10.5 miles. This section had been the end of the line in the past, and I was incredibly nervous for him as he set out to tackle Hope Pass.

With several hours to kill, Karl, Paige, and I hiked back to the van and headed back to the cabin to take a break. Karl was planning to pace Ashby for the rest of the race after his return to Twin Lakes, so we tried to get him to rest. Paige and I went out and got some lunch and a few forgotten but necessary supplies like hand sanitizer and paper towels and a Snickers ice cream bar. I tried to take a nap back at the cabin, but I was too nervous to get to sleep. I knew if Ashby made it back to Twin Lakes and felt okay, he would have this in the bag, and the waiting and not knowing was killing me. Finally, it was time to load up and head back to Twin Lakes. It was starting to cool down by the time we parked and hiked back in to the aid station. We arrived and set up in the same spot and waited. We ran into friends again who reported that they had seen Ashby at the halfway point around 4:30, and he looked great. I was excited and cautiously optimistic. The time cut off back at Twin Lakes was 9:45 (or so we thought - turns out they pushed it to 10:00, but none of us knew.) As it got later and later, I got more and more nervous. Karl had wandered up the trail to find Ashby on the course, and he finally came back around 9:30 to announce that Ashby was on his way. However we were on the wrong side of the aid station, where Ashby had to check in before 9:45. Since he didn't want to risk stopping before check in, and he didn't want to check in and then backtrack to where we were set up, we frantically grabbed everything we could and moved it down the road to an area right outside the aid station. Ashby came in looking a little worse for wear. He was still in good spirits but said that he had a rough stretch where he had felt sick and thrown up, and that had significantly slowed him down. This was not good news. I was very nervous to hear he'd thrown up. I knew he needed to rebound from that soon and start taking in nutrition or things could really go downhill. He didn't want to drink his food bottle as scheduled, but Karl promised to carry it with him and make Ashby drink it as they moved. I felt helpless to do anything to make him feel better, so we got him into his cold weather gear, changed out his water and nutrition, and sent him on his way. Paige and I cleaned up, packed up, and headed back to the car. We were headed back to Outward Bound next, but it would be a longer break than last time since Ashby was moving slower, and we were close enough to the cabin to head back for another respite.

Back at the cabin, it was dark and deserted and creepy. We were seriously out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by mountains and nothingness and really dark darkness. Paige and I began to entertain every worst case double murder scenario imaginable. I was also antsy times a thousand wondering how Ashby was doing. We had planned to head back to Outward Bound (mile 75.5) around 1:30, but I was able to pull up the tracker on the Leadville website and see that they were making quicker progress than I thought. I was sort of relieved to pack up early and get the hell out of that cabin/potential crime scene, but I was even more excited at the thought that things were going well out on the course. On our way back to Outward Bound, in the wee hours of the morning, after not sleeping for almost 24 hours, it became glaringly obvious why not painting lines to divide the lanes on your 55 mph, two-lane highway is a bad idea. It messes with your head in a serious way, and we did not enjoy it. Nevertheless, we arrived in one piece and hauled our packs out to the aid station and waited a very short time before Karl and Ashby popped out of the darkness just after 2:00 a.m. Ashby looked great - strong and relaxed. He took a short rest, got his things, and went on, and that was the moment I knew. He was going to finish.  

We met him again at Mayqueen (mile 86.5) at 5:45 and one final crew access point where there was no aid station (mile 93) shortly after 7:00. He looked strong but obviously tired at both. He didn't need much from us; he just wanted to be done. I know him well enough to know what motivates him, so I tried to offer words of encouragement. Crazily, he seemed to be picking up his pace. Each time he surprised us by arriving earlier than expected. At the last stop, I was just starting a sandwich when he rolled up. I thought I had time. I mean, how about a little consideration for me, right? I put down the sandwich and went to see if he needed anything. I told him he had plenty of time. He called me a liar and ran away. Whatever, I figured he was probably just losing it. I know I was - from 29 hours of no sleep and not just running 93 miles.

At this point, our crewing duties were done. All that was left was to head to the finish and wait. Our waiting skills were pretty honed by now. We parked the car in downtown Leadville and walked about 3/4 of a mile out from the finish line to meet Ashby and Karl on their way in. For the last few hours, every time I thought about the moment he would see the finish line, I could feel my throat tighten and tears stinging my eyes. It caught me off guard, and I would quickly think about something else. When he came into view, and it was really happening, I didn't even try not to cry. I had experienced the agony of defeat along side Ashby for the last two years, and I truly got to experience the thrill of victory with him on that stretch of 6th Street. It was the culmination of three years of training, planning, attempting, failing, doubting, fearing, regrouping, overcoming, and ultimately achieving a goal that seemed nearly impossible to achieve at times and that most sane people would have abandoned long ago. I've never known him to want something so badly that was so hard to get, but it was never in him to give up. I could see all of that in his eyes as I took his hand and we walked toward the elusive Leadville finish line. At the end of the road, I peeled off and watched him cross, looking almost as fresh as he had 29 hours ago when he crossed the start in the same spot, however the hell that's possible.

You would think this would be the time to go relax, shower, maybe eat, and get some sleep, but we actually went the opposite way. It was shortly after 9:00 a.m. on Sunday when Ashby finished. After that, we got back in the car for the 30-minute drive back to the cabin in Buena Vista, where we had to clean up, load everything into the van, and check out. Then we got something to eat and drove back to Leadville, where they had the post-race awards ceremony at noon. This is maybe the only time I was actually cranky on the trip, but only because they chose to have a ceremony with time-consuming award-presenting and speech-making two hours after the end of a 30-hour race in a crowded, hot, stuffy gymnasium, making smelly runners and crews (some with raging altitude headaches) who had been awake for 32+ hours wait until the end for them to give out the fucking belt buckles. I'm not saying crankiness was the best approach in this situation. I felt bad putting a damper on Ashby's buckle excitement. I'm just saying . . .   

Belt buckle in hand, we then had to go back to the race store to pick up Ashby's personalized jacket. This race gives really nice swag, but they do make you work for it, even after you already worked your ass off for it. While Ashby and Karl hit the store and Paige collected Ashby's drop bag, I downed more headache powder and booked a hotel room near the Denver airport. Karl and Paige were flying out around midnight that night, and Ashby and I had no real plan except that we were going to drive back to Raleigh. With a room near the airport, I figured we could all sleep until they had to catch their flight, and then Ashby and I could sleep until morning and hit the road. There was one small hitch in the plan - the 3 hours worth of mountainous highway separating us from our hotel room. We had to make a decision about who among us was least likely to fall asleep behind the wheel. Although Ashby was obviously the most physically exhausted, he was also wired from all of the recent dream-achieving, so he took the wheel. Until he couldn't, and then Paige took over, and eventually we straggled into a Hyatt where sweet, sweet sleep would soon come. After pizza. Only after pizza. Later that night, we said farewell to half the team, as Paige and Karl headed off to catch a shuttle to the airport, and early Monday morning Ashby and I embarked on our 28-hour journey home. That's right. 28 hours. Straight through. Because why not?

Side note on driving 28 hours straight from Colorado to North Carolina - don't. There was a moment around 3:00 in the morning when I was driving through Indiana or Ohio or one of those states that starts with a vowel, when it was dark and the fog was so thick I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of the car, and for the third time in the last four nights I found myself behind the wheel of a minivan at 3:00 in the morning, and I might have started to hallucinate a little, and suddenly that illusion of control I have when I'm driving went completely out the window, and I actually thought, "I'd rather be flying." So you know it's bad.

Obviously though, we made it back home alive and well, and I've done a bit of reflecting on the whole thing since. What it comes down to is that I'm grateful for the once in a lifetime experience and for what it showed me about my life. The race itself was amazing to watch, as always, and crewing is a fun and rewarding thing to do. It is mind-boggling how difficult the course is, and being there to see the runners at various stages, at their highest highs and lowest lows, is a profoundly human experience. Getting to see someone I love cross the finish line after working so hard to get there was pure joy. I'm grateful to have been a part of it.

I'm grateful to be where I am in my recovery, which gives me the freedom to experience this kind of adventure and be present and appreciate the magic in it rather than focusing on my own discomfort. I was cold, I was tired, I was hungry all the time, I had a headache that wouldn't quit, and any one of these things would have been something that ruined everything for me once upon a time. When I was in active alcoholism, these things all would have been reasons to drink. A lot. I would have obsessed about finding alcohol. When I was in very early recovery, I would have obsessed about avoiding alcohol. Now, I don't have to think about alcohol at all. I have a network of friends in recovery to lean on who are not out of touch even when I'm far away, and I have tools to deal with situations as they happen. I'm so grateful for my freedom in recovery.

I'm grateful for the relationships I have in my life. Ashby and I have both been overwhelmed by the support he's received from family and friends during this endeavor. A lot of people reached out to wish him well, encourage him, and congratulate him. We are so fortunate to have family who support us and watch our kids while we're off gallivanting across the country achieving personal goals. We are so fortunate to have kids who are such cool little people that we can't wait to get home to see them - so much so that we're willing to drive 28 hours straight to get home. And then to have friends who go above and beyond and take time out of their own lives to drive and/or fly across the country to participate in our personal adventures . . . well, we have been gifted with remarkable people in our lives, and I'm grateful for that.

Speaking of, shout out to Paige, who has been one of my closest friends for many, many years. We've known each other since junior high school, and we've had plenty of adventures together over the years. We chat nearly every day and share our fears and flaws along with the mundane details of our lives. We can talk about anything or be comfortable in silence. She has been a huge supporter in my recovery, and we share a lot of interests and views on life. Even knowing that this trip wouldn't be the most "fun" all the time, she jumped right on board and crewed her heart out. I never had to get past the halfway point of the race on my own before, and now I'm so glad I didn't have to, because the difficulty level increases exponentially when the sun goes down Saturday night. I figure she at least cut in half my chances of driving off a cliff or getting murdered in the middle of nowhere, and she made it a lot more fun. One of my favorite memories was the second time we were at Mayqueen. It was around 5:00 a.m. It was cold and dark, and Paige and I were each wrapped in blankets, sitting in camp chairs under a very starry sky. I was tired and delirious, nestled in the hood of my down jacket. We were chatting and people-watching and waiting. My voice was starting to fade and crack, and Paige said, "Tell me a story."  And I thought to myself, this is real friendship. I'm grateful for that.

FInally, I'm grateful to be married to Ashby, who I've said before is an amazing person. There's no need to go into all the reasons why here, although he's going to wish that I had. Yes, I know him well enough to know that the man loves compliments. It's not because he finished Leadville, although I truly admire the dedication it took for that to happen. But what I learned about our relationship on this trip was that, even after a 30-hour race that took a lot out of both of us, we looked forward to spending 28 hours together in a car because we like each other. And we actually had fun spending 28 hours together in a car, even though we probably came pretty close to dying a few times. That is saying something, and I'm grateful for that.

So, after a week of assessing, that's how Leadville 2014 shakes out for me. Long story short, it was epic.