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.