Uppercase Woman

Remembering Who I Am, and Getting Some Perspective

So today Charlie and I went for the second time to a new recovery meeting that I've just fallen in love with. There are people at this particular meeting that have been sober longer than I've been alive. When I think of that, it just boggles the mind completely, and in a really good way.

I go to more than one type of recovery program, and in the last year I've let the part that treats my alcoholism and drug addiction slide entirely too much (and by "treat" I mean it just like it sounds; meetings are basically the chemotherapy that keeps my disease of addiction in remission). My attendance at meetings has been spotty and inconsistent at best, and it makes it entirely too easy to forget.

Today I was forced to remember what my life was like before. We were talking about preparing for Thanksgiving--meaning preparing to be around possible triggers (like drunk family members), and trying to remain in a place of gratitude and joy instead of spending the day stressed out. This made me think back to the 27 Thanksgivings I spent BEFORE I got sober, and you know what? I can remember, like, two of them. All I have is a vague memory of annoyance that the bars I liked to go to were closed Thanksgiving night.

However, I do remember my Thanksgiving Day exactly thirteen years ago. Be warned--this next part is going to be ugly. I'm going to describe my life as it was back then, and it's graphic and gross.   

It was not a good day, thirteen years ago Thanksgiving. Sarah had gone off to rehab about six weeks before and while I'd stopped shooting heroin and was afraid to start it up again (I really didn't want to repeat that withdrawal--plus my dealer had, well, died), I was happily shooting cocaine into my abused arms. Unlike shooting heroin--where I could easily do it just a couple times a day--cocaine was a tough taskmaster. I would shoot up every fifteen minutes or so until the cocaine was gone and, oh, the sadness and horror of when it was gone. This constant use of drugs caused me to have bleeding, from EVERYWHERE. I was puking and shitting blood. My nose bled. My teeth bled. The spots on my arms where I shot up wouldn't stop bleeding.

So, when I woke up Thanksgiving morning I was out of drugs and bleeding. Charlie left me at home to go have dinner with his family (he just knew I was sick, I kept the rest hidden through careful toilet cleaning), and I just remember lying on the couch watching TV jonesing terribly for more drugs with no money and no way to get more. I cannot describe the hell of that day. It felt a lot like being torn apart, bit by bit, the sickness combined with the craving. It was a fucking nightmare.

The day after Thanksgiving, I got on a plane (I know!) and went to my 10th high school reunion. This probably saved my life. I had no way of getting drugs while I was there, so I was forced to spend three days drug free. I drank quite a lot, and I remember showing off my track marks to my horrified friends from high school (hi Leah! hi Katie!), and the overwhelming sensation that the entire world was moving in slow motion.

When I came home, I went right back to using drugs. Until that final day a few weeks later. The day I watched a huge clump of cocaine fall into my spoon and thought, "Oh well!" and shot it up anyway. The day I had a twenty minute seizure, then lay face down barely breathing for ten minutes while Charlie paced the sidewalk outside our house waiting for the ambulance. The night I lay on a bed in the hospital, lying to the doctors and telling them I wasn't doing drugs, even as they took my blood for a toxicology screen. When they came back and gave the list of things I tested positive for, I remember realizing that the jig was up. When Charlie finally came back to my room after finding my drugs and works in my purse (yes, I brought them to the hospital, why?), I was ready when he said, "No more. This stops today."

And it did.

We went home, we threw everything away (including spending two hours finding and breaking all my hidden syringes) and then we slept. When we woke up, we went to our first meeting together. We've been sober ever since.

It's funny how remembering all that can so clearly shift my focus and, well, basically give me a kick in the head. It's called PERSPECTIVE. I mean, no matter how stressful today is, my life is GOOD.

Let me say it again. My life is WONDERFUL. Sure, money is a bit tight right now. But things are going to work out. They really are. Maybe I've been a bit impatient with Tori lately, but that's nothing compared to the parenting she would receive if I were drinking again, right?

I had a wonderful job interview yesterday. We got an offer on the house in the Poconos already (I know, crazy, right?). I have another potential freelance gig that looks really exciting. Charlie loves me, fat ass and all. Tori is funny and adorable, mostly. I have good friends. My mom is babysitting Friday night.

Life is good.

I don't share this with you today because I am bragging about my sobriety, or trying to shock you by how much of a mess I was back then. Nor do I feel like I am particularly strong, or brave, or unique in either my drinking and drugging OR my sobriety. I just wanted to share about how easy it is for me to get off track, to get wrapped around the axle about shit that, in perspective, seems pretty fucking petty. Writing this reminds me, and I am blessed to remember. I have a great life. Thank God.

And, as we say, thanks for letting me share. :)

Drug Courts

I've talked here a fair amount about my friend Fred, a nice guy I met through my church who was down on his luck that Charlie and I tried to help by hiring him to do some work around our house. Unfortunately, Fred has a serious crack cocaine addiction, and it wasn't long before he did things like sell the cell phone we bought him for drugs. We'd given him a membership to our local YMCA so that he could at least bathe regularly and have a safe place to relax during the day, but he instead cased the joint and robbed it. He was videotaped while robbing it, and like an idiot, returned to the scene of the crime only to be arrested when the staff recognized him. He was arrested in July.

I've written about my belief that there really ought to be drug rehab prisons, but of course as a society we are focused more on punishment then we are on rehabilitation. We suffer from a strong "lock 'em up and throw away the key" philosophy, even though that means we have feed, clothe, and care for 'em at our own expense without much hope of actual changes in behavior once they get out.

Luckily, that might be changing. Today a wonderful story about drug courts appeared in the New York Times. These offenders--people just like Fred, people who commit crimes strictly so that they can get money for drugs--are instead given strict supervision and required to attend meetings and therapy and take regular drug tests in order to avoid prison. If they "graduate," they often get their record cleaned up so that they can continue to turn their lives around.

As the article states that drug courts reduce recidivism, cost less money than prison, and that participants have 29% fewer convictions down the road. That might not seem like much--but consider the alternative; according to this article by the Bureau of Justice, about 70% of criminals are convicted of additional crimes later on, so reducing that number by nearly a third is quite an achievement.

Yet, as usual, because of high start up costs (because who cares if money is saved down the line? We are America, the land of CASH NOW), these courts are struggling and in some places being cut altogether. This is crazy; after all, we currently have about 1% of our population in prison, and according to the White House drug policy office, 75% of criminals headed to prison tested positive for drugs when they were arrested.

Let me say that again: 75% of criminals were on drugs when arrested. Yet instead of focusing on treating the disease of addiction (and it is a disease, a chronic mental illness), we routinely lock up people like Fred instead of treating him.

I do believe Fred deserves to be punished for his crimes. But he would benefit far more from a prison that is heavily focused on drug and alcohol treatment in conjunction with punishment. Because it is clear that we are NOT winning the war on drugs. We MUST try something different.

_______________________________

We attempted to visit Fred when he was first arrested, but we weren't on his "list" so we couldn't get in to see him. We wrote to him, and he added us, but we haven't gotten back out there (it's a drive and a three hour or more commitment, and we just haven't had a chance).

But he's written. In his letters, which are simmering with resentment and misplaced self-righteousness, he has actually had the balls to ask us to pay his bail. He even went so far as to ask his lawyer to call us to see if we would pony up his bail (it's not much--bail is down to $5000, so only $500). We have refused. We know if we pay his bail he will merely vanish, leaving us screwed.

His last letter was full of anger and spite, tossing out cockeyed recovery slogans in an attempt to insinuate that we are failures as recovering drunks and addicts if we don't help him. I guess prison is a great place to spend a lot of time in his head, fanning the flames of resentments and anger. His letter ended with, "Fuck you! IT WORKS IF YOU WORK IT!*" 

He also said, "They want to give me ten years, and I just wanted a little bit of freedom before starting my sentence--is that too much to ask?" Truth is, Fred hasn't been "free" long before he went to prison. Drug addiction had him locked up in a prison of his own making more tightly then the State could ever confine him (after all, it's pretty easy to get drugs in prison). I told Fred as much when I wrote him back.

I'd love to see Fred end up in a drug court. It's not likely though; I can't find out if my county even has a drug court. But for now, he's right where he needs to be--out of harm's way, and out of the way of doing harm. But I still wish there were a better option.

I will say this: our experience with Fred has had its merits. Neither Charlie nor I have relapsed; helping other addicts and alcoholics is the best way to stay sober, even if those you try to help don't. Fred provides a handy reminder of what our lives would be like if we started drinking and drugging again. I've also had some pretty intense spiritual experiences thanks to my encounters with Fred. This is WHY we kept trying to help even when it didn't work again and again. And choosing to leave Fred in prison is actually our latest attempt to help him; perhaps suffering consequences for his actions will help him in way that kindness, love, and support did not. After all, we addicts and alcoholics are stubborn motherfuckers that don't change unless we are FORCED. God willing, Fred will get some help in prison (there are options available, hopefully he'll take them) and perhaps, this time, when he gets out he'll want sobriety. I hope and pray that is true, anyway.

*"It works when you work it" is a common statement at recovery meetings.

Depressing Things (Warning: I get judgemental in this post)

So we've just spent a crazy 18 hours trying desperately to entertain the insane toddler that has taken over the body of my daughter Tori (or as Charlie likes to call her, the angry general). Yesterday afternoon we took her to a fancy ass playground, which was hot, and today to our local aquarium, which was a complete motherfucking nightmare. What the hell was I thinking? Oh, right--we had a 50% off coupon. Sigh. So did, apparently, EVERYONE ELSE IN THE FUCKING UNIVERSE.

Ultimately, it was fun. And Tori of course LOVED IT. But one thing I noticed was HOLY CRAP do other people hit their children a lot. I don't want to judge other parents, but (allow me to go ahead and judge other parents) I have to wonder what is UP with that. The worst part is that each time I witnessed a child hit today it just seemed so fucking arbitrary.

A while back a woman slapped her child's face because the child said to me, "You're fat!" I remember the child glaring at me afterwords like, geez, lady, if you hadn't been so fucking fat I wouldn't have gotten hit. It was horrible. Not only did the poor girl get slapped, but she also learned an important life lesson: that "fat" is a BAD WORD (I prefer to view it as being no different than "short" or "tall" or, of course, "thin." It's merely descriptive). I mean, did the mother think that it was NEWS to me that I was fat? Cause honestly, I ALREADY FUCKING KNEW.

But at least the cause and effect was clear for the hitting. Today I witnessed four different kids get smacked--on the head (two), the arm, and the rear end--just for looking at things on the wrong side of the hallway. Instead of looking at the fish on the left, they looked at the fish on the right. Apparently, their parents wanted them to look at different fish. IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING AQUARIUM. ALL THEY HAVE IS FISH.

It really freaked me out. I don't worry so much about people yelling at their kids; I had someone who had a mother that was a yeller explain to me that it was just part of his culture, that all the women yelled, and it was how the kids knew their mothers cared. I don't get it, but I no longer worry about it. But the hitting? I really don't understand.

I think part of it is rooted in fear; I mean, Tori was all over the place today too and it was so crowded that sometimes it got a bit scary (and makes me long for a child that would willingly get into her ritzy ass stroller). Part of it is rooted in resentment and entitlement, perhaps: No, I want to look at these fish here therefore you must look at them too. I know it's also passed down--chances are, every hitting parent was a child that was hit.

But it doesn't have to be that way. Charlie's mom was a hitter, and he would never dream of hitting Tori. In fact at lunch today, when we were discussing this, he said he hadn't noticed the hitting because none of the parents wound up for the punch or slap like his mom did; so he remained unfazed. If Charlie is any example, this is a practice that could easily be phased out of our society.

(I'm not, by the way, lumping into this group of parents I'm judging so horribly the parent that does the occasional spanking. I understand the smack on the ass a kid gets when he or she has done something dangerous--I might not do it, but I understand it. I find that hitting a kid in the head or face, though, really distressing--until the teenage years. I called my mom a bitch when I was 15 and she slapped me and I well deserved it).

Anyway, to make things worse, when we got home we were greeted by the police. Apparently, our old pal Fred (you know, the homeless drug addict Charlie and I have been trying to help get clean for the last nine months) has been in trouble again. After he got kicked out of the church for the last time a few months ago, we bought him a YMCA membership so that he would at least be able to shower. Well, apparently, the idiot broke in to the YMCA and stole their cash box--and he was filmed doing it. And, with typical addict arrogance and stupidity, he returned to the YMCA for a shower two days later. The entire staff--having viewed the robbery tape--knew it was him and called the police.

Sigh.

Sometimes humanity is just so. fucking. awful.

Sigh.

Anyway. I can't end this post this way. So here's a rare shot of Tori full-on smiling (these days when you ask her to smile she grimaces and squeezes her eyes shut). More photos will be at my Flickr account shortly.

The Fear That Holds Me Back

Thank you all so much for sharing writing ideas. I feel very energized and jazzed up about blogging again. Amazing, how little it took, no?

Before I get into this entry, however, I need to take a moment to publicly thank the most awesome Lia. Many of you who watched the movie for Tori's second birthday probably remember this cute shot of Tori in her adorable birthday hat:

Lia was kind enough to make the hat for Tori, which she loved, insisting on wearing it every single day EXCEPT her actual birthday (in her defense, it was hot as fucking hell on the actual day). Anyway, Lia is the proprietor of the awesome Etsy shop Bellybutton Industries, and makes the hats professionally. So thank you, Lia, and be sure to visit her site (which she did NOT ask me to link to, but how could I not? How cute is that dang hat?).

__________________________________________

So Karen and Charlise both asked me what I'm afraid of. The short and simple answer is: EVERYTHING. Remember that scene in the Charlie Brown Christmas special when Lucy diagnoses Charlie Brown with Pantophobia? And he yells, "THAT'S IT!" and he bowls her out of her chair? Yeah. Kind of like that.

I do have some specific fears. I'm afraid that Charlie will leave me (because all men leave); worse, I have a fear that he won't (meaning not all men are the same). I'm desperately afraid that Tori will get sick and taken away from me.  I'm afraid I'm always going to feel awful physically and have headaches. I'm afraid I will always be hugely fat, and that I will get sick from it. I'm afraid that I will always not have enough money. I'm afraid that the money problems plaguing those I love is going to hurt them. I have tons of fears like that.

But as an alcoholic, my true fears are all very self-centered. For instance, I do not spend a great deal of time being afraid of war in the Middle East. I do, however, freak the fuck out when I have to deal with people--will they like me? Will they hate me? Will I say the wrong thing? What if I don't say the RIGHT thing (because I always have to be the one saying just the right thing, making everyone laugh)? Am I too fat?

According to a highly reliable source (one of my recovery books), alcoholics are absolutely plagued with self-centered fears: the fear that we won't get what we want or need, or that we will lose what we already have. This is the main reason I drank and used drugs, and the heart of everything I have to work on in myself today as a sober woman.

But occasionally more obvious fears rise to the surface.

The meeting I went to this morning had an awesome speaker. She talked about fear, and about faith, and asked us to consider what fear is holding us back, right this minute, and keeping us from being our authentic selves. As often happens to me in meetings, I felt punched in the gut, and began to tear up. Because right this minute, I have a huge fear staring me in the face, and I've danced around it but have not confronted it directly.

I am terrified to move forward as a writer.

I know it seems stupid. Here I am, writing this blog every day, constantly talking about taking the next best step in my writing career (you have no idea how hard it is for me to claim that writing is my "career"). But it is a huge leap to go from being a stay-at-home mother who does a bit of writing on the side to pay the bills to declaring myself a capital "W" Writer.

Here is the truth: I want to write a book. I have a book in me. I really do.

You have no idea how hard it is to type those words or say them out loud. So many of you have written to me to say, you should write a book! And I write back, I don't know what I'd write about! That is a stupid non-response. I know what I want to write about. I want to write about how my fractured and twisted spirituality has helped and healed me throughout my life, including infertility and sobriety. I want to be the infertile Anne Lamott. I know this. I know this to my bones. But admitting it out loud scares the crap out of me.

This fear doesn't just hold me back on writing a book. It keeps me from getting new blogging gigs or freelance writing jobs. I know when I send out my resume and my queries that editors can absolutely HEAR that fear in my voice. They know that I don't believe I am a Writer, and they want to hire Writers, not dabblers. So I don't get the gigs. Over and over this has happened to me in the last year. And the one small gig I managed to get--at Type-A Mom--Jenn correctly pointed out that I hold back there; I'm afraid to let my true personality shine through on those posts. Fear holds me back, yet again.

I realized this spring that I needed to do something because I know my main freelance client--the one that has made this last year at home possible--is going to go away. By the end of the year at the latest, possible sooner. This, of course, is why I decided I needed to go to BlogHer. At BlogHer, I would have the chance to meet many of the upper echelon Bloggers, and possibly meet some editors and other industry professionals.

I wrote yesterday about how scared I am of going to BlogHer, how I worry that no one will like me or talk to me. But that's not the real fear--honestly, I can never go anywhere without people talking to me, and I am sure BlogHer will be no different. The real fear is that I know I don't believe I am a Writer, and all those people I hope to meet will know it.

Blessedly, I realized this now, and not a week after coming back from San Francisco (how much would that suck?). I have some time to work on it. So I am going to finally try to believe the things you folks say to me on a daily basis. I am going to try to embrace myself as a Writer.

The truth is, (big breath) I AM a good writer.

Once in a while, I write something great, which means that I am sometimes a GREAT writer.

(hand hovering over the delete key)

I have something to say. I am good at putting words together.

Damn it, I am a WRITER. And from now on? I'm going to fucking start acting like it.

Whew.

I feel better.

So tell me; what fear is holding you back today? What is keeping you from moving forward?

Scarred Hands

The Sunday after Easter is often the time, in Christian churches, when the story of doubting Thomas is told. If you are like me and are either a really shitty Christian or not a Christian at all you may not know that the phrase "doubting Thomas" comes from the story in the bible where the apostle Thomas refuses to believe that Jesus has risen from the dead until he, personally, "sees the wounds in his hands and touches the wound in his side." Naturally, as it works out, Jesus shows up yet again and the lucky bastard does get his proof and is gently admonished by Jesus who says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe."

Of course, this is where the rest of us are. We are the ones who have not seen, whether it's Jesus or whatever form of God or God-like spirit you want to believe in. Imagine how much easier it would be to believe? It seems to me that the apostles had it rather easy, eh?

I've been a pretty strong doubting Thomas since the boys died. Worse, I've been all "Yeah, God might exist but he doesn't love ME." It's been an uphill battle changing my own mind about this the last few years. My minister on Sunday closed his sermon with a story that touched me profoundly. He told about a young boy living on the frontier with his grandmother, and how one night their house caught fire. Because it was a frontier town, there wasn't much of a fire department, so although the grandmother tried to rescue the boy on the second floor, she was overcome by smoke and perished on the first floor. The boy was upstairs yelling for help as a crowd gathered, not knowing what to do. Finally, a man in the crowd pushed his way forward and began climbing up the iron drainpipe to rescue the boy. The drainpipe, of course, was searing hot from the fire, but the man managed to get into the room, put the boy on his back, and climb back down while the crowd cheered.

After the fire burned out, and things had settled down, a town meeting was called to decide where the boy would live. The whole town came to see to the boy's fate. A farmer stepped forward, and said, "I'll take the boy; I can teach him a valuable trade!" Everyone nodded with approval. Then the town's teacher stood up and she said, "He can live with me; I'll make sure he gets a wonderful education!" More heads nodded. The town's banker stood up self-importantly and said, "I'll make sure he lives in the largest house in town!" Everyone seemed to think that was splendid.

Finally, the meeting leader asked if there was anyone else. There was a pause, and then, from the back of the room a man stood up and said, "I can't offer much. I can't teach a trade, or provide a big house or a great education. All I can offer is my love." Then he pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and showed the scars covering them and of course it was the man that had climbed the drainpipe and rescued the boy. The boy ran into his waiting arms, and the meeting was over, because the decision had been made.

...

This story was, of course, compared to Jesus. My minister compared the burns on the man's hands to the scars from Jesus being nailed to the cross. I must confess, while I remain steadfast in my refusal to fully succumb to the allure of Jesus-ness (Jesus-ocity?), I was moved. Deeply moved, and deeply humbled.

I realized that God doesn't promise us much; not big houses, not great educations, not even the rescue of our loved grandmothers that burn to death below us--or, if you will, the loss of our twin boys. But God did sacrifice something--I'm not sure what (Christianity says God sacrificed his son; interesting parallel there, no?) to bring us that love.

Oh, it's been such a long time since I could feel that so clearly.

I hope I'm telling this right. It's so hard to communicate it effectively. I've been trying to impart a tiny piece of this truth, or maybe this hope, to our friend Fred (remember Fred? the guy from my church that was working for us?) who is continuing to struggle. He's not struggling so much with his sobriety these days, but that's only because he has no money to buy drugs with.

I've been trying to explain to him the idea of pride, and the idea of humility. I've had some good lessons in humility lately, such as my unattractive reaction to the woman that attacked me last week (respond, don't react--I'll file that one away), and the gentleman that took me aside at one of my meetings and asked me to share more kindly about my husband (ack), among others. For me, my spiritual journey is a constant battle of humility and pride.

Fred's battle with pride seems unlikely, considering that he's homeless. He was kicked out of living at the church (for good reasons I won't get into here). He briefly went into a rehab, but left after a few weeks. He recently was offered a dishwashing job but had a communication issue with the boss (primarily because he doesn't have a phone and uses ours) and took that as a reason to not take the job), and actually said he was better off sitting outside on a bench than washing dishes.

I got so angry with him. When I told him to practice some humility, what he hears is he has to eat shit. When the jobs he wants won't hire him, he says to me, "Do I have a sign on my forehead?" and I think, yes, Fred, you do, you have one that says, I won't take any shit and that make bosses not want to hire you. He cannot see that the situation he's in is one of his own making and that he has to bow his head and act humbly if he wants his life to change. Even though the only time he eats is when he's here (I just found this out yesterday, and it makes my heart hurt). Even though he gets maybe five hours of sleep a night at the shelter.

He cannot see God's love. He does not see the scarred hands. All he sees is the lack of the nice house, and the good education, and the job. He only sees deprivation. He refuses to see the abundance, although it's hard to blame him--it's got to be difficult to see abundance when you only eat four or five times a week and you are living on the street.

I do not know how to give this to him. I do not know how to impart humility. I do not know how to give the gift I've been given--the ability to see past all the pain, and instead see the joy. I have been given a great gift! I have such an amazing life, and somehow, after all my railing against it, all my self-pitying bullshit, I still have God's love. What a wonder.

But no matter what I do, I cannot take Fred's face and force it into the light. I do not see good things for him right now. I do not want to withdraw my helping hand, yet I do not know how much more I can do. He sees our helping hand withdrawing and it only makes him more bitter, more sure that God has rejected him.

It's hard work, being the only tenuous connection someone has to God. Especially when you aren't sure if that is what you are actually doing; if instead, what you might be doing is helping someone continue to tread water when they should actually be swimming to shore.

But I digress. I wanted this to be a happy post about how I felt so sure that I could once again feel God's love; and it is, and I do. Oh man, I really, really do. But that makes it all the more clear that some people don't feel that same love, and that hopelessness I feel from Fred is so stark and awful I can almost not bear it.

So, I'll ask a favor of you all. Pray for him. Think good thoughts for him. Because I think the end of this road for him is coming; either he will turn toward the light or he will turn toward, well... the place that addicts and alcoholics go when they don't: jails, institutions, death. But I hope he turns.

Because MAN is this a great place to be.

Unbalanced

So, I've been fuming ranting and raving stewing considering the whole last 48 hours on this blog.

I've been thinking about what would happen if any of the candidates actually DID come and read my blog post about losing Nicholas and Zachary and why it made me even more a believer in keeping abortion safe and legal (and rare). Then I started to think about how it would be if they read the comments, and then what I posted the next day, and I began to feel, well, frankly... embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed by you guys--your comments were fine. I'm embarrassed at my behavior, at my cattiness, and at my reactionary response to the few people that asked me that simple question: why didn't I get a c-section? Of course the answer seems obvious, on the surface, either to those of us that have been through a similar situation, or have watched women like us go through it, or have a medical background, or have the Google MD that comes from years of infertility and loss.

But you know what? That does NOT describe everyone who reads this blog any more. There are a lot of people who come here who never had any trouble conceiving (and some who haven't even yet tried) who might honestly just not know the answer to that simple question: why didn't I have a c-section?

Instead of being calm and rational, and what I like to call the "Good Cecily" that handles discussions of the loss of my twins in a reasoned and sensible manner and just answers the question asked, I instead reacted to what I perceived to be the unasked questions or the unstated judgments. I didn't hear a simple "Why didn't you get a c-section?" I heard, "Bitch, why didn't you try harder to save your son's life and have a c-section?"

And you know what? NOBODY SAID THAT. I leaped to conclusions--many of us did--and instead of responding, I reacted. I got angry. I behaved badly. I engaged in an email debate that got ugly. And worse, when the person I engaged with extended what might have been an olive branch I could have possibly grasped onto (admittedly, it was a small branch, slightly wilted, without any actual leaves), instead of trying to bring peace to our discussion, I set the fucking branch on fire.

Additionally, I turned my back on the 110 supportive and positive comments I got and instead focused on the single commenter that was negative. How rotten is that? How ungrateful? How small minded and stupid?

I can't give a reasonable excuse for why this happened; I'd love to blame the hormones (seriously, this is the worst PMS I've ever experienced, and WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PERIOD ALREADY?) but that's not the only reason. In general lately I have been focusing on the dark and not able to see the light. I find that when my surface is scratched these days, what is underneath is bitterness and fear. I'm not letting love in. I'm not letting God in. I'm not letting the light in.

So I'm not sure I should be representing ANYONE to our candidates.

I want to apologize to those of you that asked a simple question and got shouted down. Please, forgive me for not just answering what you asked and instead assuming you were saying something else entirely (and even if that WAS what you were thinking, that is SO not my business). I hope you will continue to come here, and continue to ask questions, and continue to express your point of view even if it differs from mine and from many readers of this blog.

Now, please don't give me a bunch of accolades and tell me how awesome I am for saying this. I'm not big-hearted, or brave, or tolerant, even, particularly. Truth is, I'm mostly kind of an asshole and sometimes I let it show here in the blog. This was one of those times. I'm working on it.

Now. Back to the puppies.

Take-the-baby-to-Prison Day, or Why Aren't There Any Rehab Prisons? (and this is the kind of post that will keep me from being elected to anything, ever)

So, on Saturday I was changing Tori's diaper in the bathroom of the visitors waiting room at prison and I got to thinking about this post I've been meaning to write.

Wait. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Recently, we (we being Charlie, Sarah, and I) found out that an old friend of ours had gone down a rocky path. Once sober and happy, he'd hit a bunch of speed bumps--the brutal murder of a friend and business partner, the loss of a fianceé, the theft of his belongings--and it all added up to his choosing to return to using drugs and drinking rather than staying sober. In short order, this led to him being where he is now: behind bars, serving a two-year sentence. We'd lost touch with him over the years and had no idea he was in jail, but after exchanging a few letters decided to go visit him.

Visiting someone is prison is a nightmare in Philadelphia (perhaps it's more fun where you are). We arrived early, took a number, sat for a half-hour, then filled out a form, found out to our dismay that we couldn't take Tori to see our friend because we didn't bring her birth certificate with us (for fuck's sake), and then we waited. And waited. The room we waited in was about 100 degrees, and it took forever for them to allow us our visits (we each got a half-hour with our friend, and we had to wait 45 minutes between our half hours for some unknown reason). Once I was finally permitted to go back to see him, I was required to take off my shoes and shake out my socks, lift my shirt and shake out my bra, lift my hair and let the guard check behind my ears, let her put her hands in all my pockets, look "down" my pants, and also open my mouth and let her look under my tongue.

Our friend is lucky; he's managed to fight to get two years sober again in prison, but not because of any help the system has given him. He's in a special section of the prison dedicated to addicts and alcoholics and he only gets exactly ONE sobriety meeting a week (most folks believe in order to maintain sobriety, particularly early sobriety, you should go every day). He also gets to go to church once a week. Yet he says he could easily obtain drugs in prison, even in his special unit--in fact, he told me during our visit that most of his unit was "zannied out" (meaning they were taking xanax) and it was obvious to me that several of the other prisoners in the visiting room were completely stoned.

According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, 16%-18% of crimes are committed because of individuals either behaving badly while on substances or committing crimes (such as robbery) to get money so they can procure MORE substances.  I think that number is actually insanely low; this Drug-Related Crime Fact sheet put out by the government claims that nearly 75% of criminals tested positive for drugs when they were busted here in Philadelphia (compared to only 42% in Anchorage, Alaska--Philly kicks ass again; Woot!).

Yet drug treatment remains a low priority for our criminal justice system. This fact sheet claims that nearly 75% of the 6.3 million people incarcerated in the United States NEED some form of treatment, but only 11% get it. Of course you can't force people to get help when they don't want it--most of us addicts and alcoholics do NOT, in fact, ever get better--but while this sheet claims that prisons offer extensive treatment, it's simply NOT TRUE.

Here in Philadelphia, sobriety meetings are taken in to prisons by non-prisoners on a regular basis. But it's a challenge (people willing to bring meetings must go through a major certification process, must not be ex-felons themselves, etc, etc). Most prisons allow no more than one meeting a month, at most, and do NOT allow the prisoners to organize their own meetings. Why can't prisoners hold their own meetings if they are supervised by a counselor or drug treatment therapist? Because there AREN'T ANY THERAPISTS OR COUNSELORS AVAILABLE TO THE PRISONERS.

I have wondered for years why there aren't prisons specifically for individuals that have committed crimes but are serious about getting clean and sober. I had a friend in early recovery that went to a sober high school; it was just like regular high school, but they also held daily meetings and had an overall focus on staying away from alcohol and drugs (wish I'd gone to one of those). So why aren't there sober prisons?

I understand that prison is, first and foremost, PUNISHMENT. I am not suggesting that we change the prison experience from typical prison to the luxury spa experience that Brittney Spears and Lindsay Lohan enjoyed during their stints in "Rehab." A rehab prison should still be a prison. But it should offer daily meetings, and have more frequent drug testing, and work harder to keep the drugs OUT (I really think it's despicable that drugs get into prisons so easily--and it's clearly NOT coming from the visitors; I couldn't have sneaked in shit).

If prisoners came out of prison sober, don't you think there is a much better chance of decreased recidivism? If prisoners are used to meetings, they will have a quick and easy way to plug back in to society (by going to meetings OUTSIDE of prison) that can help them find places to live and jobs and keep them out of trouble (people in meetings help their own), as well as making them more willing to utilize the services provided by the prison system (our friend is plugged in to his social worker for help with jobs and housing when he gets out this summer).

Getting sober isn't easy, and it's not fun. Why do you think so many people fail at it? Learning to live without alcohol and drugs for the addict or alcoholic is like learning to walk backwards. It is so much easier, sometimes, to just keep walking forward. Being sober, to the alcoholic/addict, is as unnatural as being drunk all the time is to the non-alcoholic. Being sober feels wrong, bad, awkward, uncomfortable. Like you are naked, or like your skin is on inside out. It sucks, and it take forever--months and months--for that feeling to lessen (it never quite goes away completely). Along with that comes the humiliation of realizing the harm you've caused, the truth of what a shit heel you've been for years, and the hard work you have to do to become a decent human being. IT SUCKS. No one should look at the act of getting sober as a "gift" being given to a prisoner. Getting sober is a nearly impossible struggle and has to be earned and fought for, and is painful and agonizing--don't think it isn't. So I truly do not believe that providing prisoners with a chance to earn their sobriety makes their stay in prison MORE comfortable. Trust me on this one--being high on xanax is a WAY better way to do your time.

I realize this is all fantasy on my part; no one ever wants to view treatment as a way to solve crime instead of punishment; a hammer is always seen as more effective than a hug. But right now, prisons are full to the brim with individuals doing obscene amounts of time for drug crimes thanks to the mandatory sentences that were instituted in the early 1990's; the way the laws were set up, individuals caught with three grams of crack did as much time as dealers caught with 300 grams (thankfully, that rule has been tossed). Eventually all of those individuals are going to get out of prison no better than they were when they went in, and in many cases, much worse. They will commit more crimes, and hurt more people, and end up right back there, costing us more money and filling up more jail cells.

Isn't it time to try something different?

Gone Daddy Gone

Voting is still open until tomorrow on the blog title! Currently, Uppercase Woman and Writ Large are fighting for the top spot. Cast your vote now!

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According to the 2000 Census report, 20 million kids under the age of 18 lived in single-parent households at that time. 16.5 million live with single mothers, and 3.3 million live with their fathers (of that 3.3 million, about a third live with their unmarried partners, while only a tenth of mothers live with an unmarried partner). That's about 6.7% of all children living with a single parent.

In 1970, when I stopped having two parents, about 5% of kids lived with just one parent. I didn't feel like an oddball kid, not having a dad. For a year, my mother and I lived with a group of women who were all also divorced and raising a kid alone, so I was one of many kids without a dad. But once I started going to school, I felt the difference. My mother was treated differently (it seemed to me) by my teachers. Other kids made fun of me for not having a dad.

Of course, part of that was because while there were plenty of other kids of divorce around, they saw their dads on weekends. Those dads showed up at the band concerts and the teacher conferences. But not me, and not my dad. My father simply vanished out of my life.

My childhood memories of my father are nearly non-existent. I have a very dim memory of him visiting once when I was three or four years old, and I thought he was a fireman because he had a huge (to me) red pickup truck. (This is ironic, of course, because my father later went on to become a firefighter, and then died in a house fire he caused). But other than that hazy memory, I don't remember him as a young man.

I had a lot of substitute fathers. There were a few men around my mother and I that were kind to us (not men she dated--she kept her dating habits away from me), like John Pugh, an acupuncturist married to a beautiful Mexican woman and built adobe houses for the poor. But most of my substitute dads were famous--John Lennon (who my father did bear a passing resemblance to), Jim Henson (don't ask me why--it's not like I saw him on television or anything, but I cried like a baby when he died), and other singers like Pete Seeger, and even John Denver (any man with round glasses like my dad was a substitute).

When I was in high school I read an article about the psychological impact of not having a father. Girls who lost their fathers to death tended to be grasping and clingy in relationships with men, and girls who lost their fathers by divorce often push their partners away. Although at that moment in my life I'd only been in one serious relationship (Paul, my boyfriend throughout high school), I felt a chill of recognition-- only two days before I'd dumped Paul mercilessly, then let him walk about thirty feet away before running after him and begging him to take me back.

I've talked before about having a Daddy-shaped hole in my heart, and how deeply the absence of my father has effected me. Now that my father is dead and I'm a mother, that absence has become even more intense and overwhelming. Especially now. Now that Tori is the age I was when my father left.

Maybe Tori is too attached to us--after all, she's home with both of us all day. But if Charlie leaves the house, even if it's just to take the trash out, Tori cries loudly and intensely (although it only lasts a moment). If he's gone for the afternoon, when he comes home Tori's face lights up and she shrieks with joy.

If he was gone--really gone, for good--she would know.

Earlier in my life I comforted myself when I thought of my father by saying I didn't know what I was missing--after all, I didn't remember him. But Tori would know it if Charlie left, and she would grieve his loss intensely and it would effect her for the rest of her life. How could I have imagined that I was left unscathed?

I'm trying to acknowledge and accept the feelings (which have been constant and intense) I've been having about this. The feelings have been coming out all sideways, of course: I've been rotten to Charlie lately, fighting and bullying him for no reason. I did a photographic self-portrait about it for my 52 Weeks project on Flickr, and now I'm writing about it here. But I know I'm barely scratching the surface.

Tori is lucky. There is no way that Charlie would ever leave her. It's why I married him, and why I wanted to have children with him. She will never have a daddy-shaped hole in her heart; instead, her heart will be, god willing, full of love and hope because not only does she have a daddy, she has one that loves her beyond reason.

I wish every little girl could be so lucky. The truth is, there are 20 million other kids out there that are currently running around with parent-shaped holes in their hearts. I don't know what can be done about this--you can't force someone to parent, and frankly, some people shouldn't BE parents--but it makes me sad to think about all of us with our broken hearts, trying to live in this world and be in relationships with each other.

Not to sound like a completely ridiculous and trite romantic, but I do believe that love is possible, and that love can heal. After all, after years of floundering, I managed to find it. And when I watch Charlie with Tori, a little bit of the sadness I feel about not having a father is lifted away. I doubt that I will ever be whole in that way, but I can rest easy knowing that I was lucky enough to stumble on a good man that will love my daughter (and me) for the rest of our lives.

Broken hearts can be mended, after all. Even the hearts of little fatherless girls like me.

Pretend This Post is Accompanied By Festive Confetti and Balloons

Call me a whore if you must, but I have to say the following:

THIS BLOG HAS RECEIVED A MILLION HITS!!!!!

I am famous!

*insert maniacal cackle here*

OK, not really. After all, other blogs get a million hits a day. And many of those hits are looking for things like “fat cunts” and “big ass girls give blow jobs,” so I’m not all that. But it’s still pretty exciting.

I am grateful that any of you, ever, come here and read this and support me in this crazy quest. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I will never forget the day I was in the hospital, waiting to get the bad news about the last pregnancy; Sarah printed out every single comment you guys wrote and brought them to me. It made such a difference in my sanity during that tough time.

So, thanks. I couldn’t do it without you.

Now, bring me my goddamned coffee. Heh.

In regards to my last post, many of you asked, “What do you think started you down the path of drugs and alcohol?” I think many of you were actually asking, “Holy fucking shit, how do I stop my kids from being like you?”

Truth is, I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I think. I believe, firmly, that Alcoholism/Addiction is a disease—an often fatal, and sadly, incurable disease. Because I have that disease—which I believe I was born with—my path was inevitable.

In other words, NOTHING could have stopped me.

Unlike most of you, alcohol and drugs fit my brain the way a key fits in a lock.

Let’s take a look at a not-so-random sample of alcoholics: Sarah, Charlie, and me.

Sarah grew up in a happy and loving home with happily married parents and an older brother. She lived in a good neighborhood in the suburbs, went to great schools, and then went to a good college. She was middle class, Jewish, and had plenty of  great opportunities.

Charlie grew up with a workaholic father and an abusive mother. They were upper-middle-class and lived in thriving urban centers, but moved often between major East Coast cities. Charlie’s dad died when he was 17, but he managed to graduate from high school and get into a prestigious Ivy League university, and graduated from there as well.

I grew up as the only child of a single mom, my father having left when I was an infant, when my mother was only 20 years old. We were horribly poor. While I read early and skipped a grade in elementary school, by middle school I’d already given up on school. My mother returned to college when I was in elementary school, and we moved across the country before I started high school. I screwed up both of my chances to get a free college education, and have yet to finish my degree.

The only thing we have in common is that NONE of us had a lot of alcohol or drugs in our homes while we grew up. Yet all three of us ended up in the same house, doing the same things, and getting sober around the same time.

Like every other disease, Alcoholism does NOT discriminate.

Could my life have been different? Hell, I don’t know. All I know is this: when I was a kid, I felt crazy, left out, like a freak. I was sure everyone knew my game and no one really like me. But one day, someone put a drink in my hand, and lo and behold, I felt normal. While you may have had your first drink and thought, “Ug, I’m so nauseous and the room is spinning, I can’t believe people do this for fun!” Not me. I thought, “Oh, god, FINALLY. That’s what I’ve needed all this time.”

I can see different turns my life could have taken; I could have stuck with my "no drugs" rule and ended up as a fifty-year-old bar whore. I could have chosen drugs over alcohol in high school and gotten sober at 17, or overdosed at 20.

But do I believe that a life without the influence of alcohol and drugs was possible for me? No. Not really.

As for your other question, “What will you tell you kids?” God. Who knows? We’ve talked about it, of course. If the child is genetically related to us, we’d want to make them aware of the fact that they are genetically predisposed to the disease of addiction.

And here, safe in the “we don’t actually have kids yet” zone, we can say we believe that  experimenting with drinking and drugs is normal, and it’s unrealistic to think that a kid is never going to come home trashed.

We’d like to tell our kid about the dangers and safety issues surrounding drinking and drugging. We’d like to believe we'd say, “Please call us anytime you are in trouble and we will help you without judgment.”

But how we’ll actually feel, and what words will come out of our mouths when that kid is actually sitting across from us? I have no idea.

A handful of pregnancy updates; I’ve developed the linea nigra (I never did last time; weird, huh? Oh, and my belly looks exactly like the one in the photo; HA HA HA HA HA), which is kind of cool. Also, this morning I was leaning back in bed (oh, alright, I was lying on my back. It was only for a minute, don’t shoot me!) and I coughed, and saw my belly develop an alarming point while I was coughing. I imagine that means my stomach muscles have separated (all the links I've found are fitness related, sorry) and I’m seeing my uterus and other innards poking through. It’s gross and cool at the same time.

Lastly, remember my constant complaints about my dry mouth? About how it’s probably just another pregnancy symptom and I have to live with it?

Did I also mention that I’m a fucking idiot?

A couple days ago I noticed a white paste on the roof of my mouth. Recognizing it for what it is, I went to see my general practitioner and sure enough: I have oral thrush.

Oral thrush, for those of you who don’t know, is a yeast infection of the mouth and throat. Nice, huh? I get it sometimes because the inhaler I use for my asthma contains a topical steroid. If I don’t rinse my mouth properly, the bacteria in my mouth can go all whacky.

Chances are I’ve had this the entire. fucking. time. Yeah.

So now I’m gargling with nystatin, the same medicine they give to babies with thrush (usually I have to suck on these lozenges that are basically sugar-flavored Monistat). It’s not bad, but I have to say this:

Do drug manufacturers actually taste the “flavored” medicines they give to kids? Cause this shit tastes like banana flavored ASS.

James Frey Made Me Write This Post

On Saturday night, Sarah, Pete, Charlie and I went to Elise and her husband's for dinner. We had an amazing time--laughing, talking, just enjoying each other. After dessert, we ended up just sitting around the table talking for hours. Something I haven't done since the days I was drinking and drugging...

Maybe that's why I found myself talking about my using days. Elise asked a question, and Sarah and I found ourselves talking about those last few months out there in the drinking world. I've been thinking a lot about my own using insanity lately, so it felt good to just talk about it, to bring it back out into the light and look again with the eyes of someone who's been sober over ten years.

What strikes me the most is how fucking insane it was.  I was crazy! When I look at it now, the things I did back then--almost all of them--seem like something only a suicidal lunatic would do.  But back then, they seemed completely fucking rational. Really.

Lots of people accuse us infertiles of being obsessed with wanting a child; but honestly, they have no idea what the fuck obsession is.

Obsession is using water from a toilet to mix up the drugs you are going to put into your veins because you cannot go one. more. minute. without it. Yes, TOILET WATER. In my VEINS.

Obsession is climbing your neighbor's fence to break into your other neighbor's house because you know he has some really bad cocaine hidden in there and you don't have any money and bad coke is better than nothing. And doing it more than once, even after you get caught.

Obsession is when your dealer tells you there are "things you can do" to keep getting the drugs when you run out of cash and you think, yeah, OK, that makes sense. You feel relieved that there is a way to keep the flow of drugs coming, regardless of how much it will hurt you or the ones you love to do those "things."

Obsession is sneaking into your place of employment to use the copy of the key you secretly had made earlier in the day for the petty cash drawer to get more money so you can go back to the bar and keep partying with that cute boy that will go home with you and never call.

Obsession is hanging out in an alley behind a bar stealing the empty liquor bottles and draining the last drops out of them with a group of friends thinking this is hilarious.

Obsession is going from bar to bar to bar seeking the best place, the best party, the best time.

Obsession is thinking "It's fine that he doesn't have all his teeth and works in a gay bar. And he won't give me his phone number. I can sleep with him without risk." And then that guy dies of AIDS two years later.

Obsession is draping all the lamps in the house with scarves so that your track marks can remain hidden from your boyfriend.

Obsession is using an elaborate makeup process to hide the damage to your arms; first, white clown face makeup; then foundation; then powder. And thinking no one notices at work.

Obsession is stealing a muscle relaxant from your employer, dissolving it into a liquid, shooting it up, and then discovering that you no longer have the muscle control to remove the tourniquet or needle from your arm and you have to sit there bleeding for twenty minutes until you can finally get it off.

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I think you get my point.  There is no comparison; the "obsession" with having a child that we infertiles may or may not have involves things like doctors and paperwork. Not toilet water and drug dealers and doing "things."

And, yes, I did every single thing I listed above (except the "things;" the overdose that led me to sobriety came a few days after that offer). My story is not unusual or rare or odd; in fact, my alcoholism is shockingly average, and my drug use pretty lame (my entire drug history fits into a six-month span).

When I first met Elise and I'd tell her these stories she's open her eyes so wide her contact lenses would fall out. It actually became a goal for me and Charlie; what story can we dig up to make Elise lose a lens? Sadly, that phase passed. Heh.

On Saturday night Elise and her husband were talking about what they'll tell their daughter about drinking and drugs when she gets older. They joked about using us as a cautionary tale.

But the truth is, I was an alcoholic and addict before I ever touched a drink. A story like mine when I was young would have sounded romantic and fun and adventureous--not stupid,  dangerous, illegal, and life-threatening.

I'm not saying there was no hope for me; that I was destined to take the path I took. I can look back and see several times in my life when I would have been open to the idea of recovery, if a chance had presented itself.

But I walked the path I did, and have come here to this place. To a place where I can sit in a circle of good friends and eat and laugh without a hint of drugs or alcohol around me. To a place where my skin feels, for the most part, comfortable and easy.

I wouldn't want it any other way. And I thank James Frey for reminding me that I don't need to lie; my truth is scary enough.