A Dog’s Thoughts on Recovery

In Anne Lamott’s audiobook, Word by Word she shares a poem written by her dog Sadie Louise. One line from the poem reads, “Drunks drink because they miss Jesus.”  You read that right.   Anne Lamott’s dog Sadie wrote a poem.  Sadie the dog got the essence of me in that line.

I have struggled with the idea of a personal relationship with Jesus.  The way I understood things was something like a good cop-bad cop scenario.  God was this powerful being – and yes, He had a long white beard and booming voice- who sent plagues, snakes, and destroyed things a lot.  Jesus was the good guy.  He calmed God down, He apologized for us all here on earth by dying for our sins, and He was supposed to be my BFF (Best Friend Forever).   I had accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior.  I believed I was saved.  I could quote Bible verses and have theological discussions with anyone.

Some of the women in my church talked about their dream of going to Heaven and dancing with Jesus.  It was hard for me to get my head around Jesus dancing.  We were Southern Baptists and back then, we didn’t dance.  I attended a Baptist high school and we had a Junior Senior Dinner NOT prom.  (In later years, the prohibition against dancing seemed to vanish along with women pastors.)  I felt I had missed some important teaching or doctrine lesson. I knew I didn’t have that kind of relationship with Jesus.

As the years went on, I felt my relationship with Jesus was at best conflicted. I couldn’t seem to find that very deeply personal relationship others claim to share.  I imagined God standing in Heaven with his arms crossed, looking down at me, and shaking his head.  I imagined Jesus standing with Him explaining His efforts to reach me.

When I began drinking, I began talking more to God and Jesus.  I was much bolder drunk than sober.  I told God how frustrating it was.  I begged them to show me what I was missing.  I would sit outside at night with my drink in hand staring at the stars and wondering where They were hiding up there.  The more I drank the farther away God seemed until it felt as if He had turned away from me altogether.

In my desperation, I turned to music.  Music and books have always been my way of coping with life.  Music touches my heart and soul and can elicit joy or tears.  At times music was the only I way could feel—anything.  During this time in my life records and radio were the main avenues for music.   I had record albums from the Beatles to Peter, Paul, and Mary.  My largest collection of music was albums from the newest genre of Christian music.  It was different from Gospel music and very controversial.  I had artists like Don Fransico, Sandi Patty, Steve Taylor, Petra, and Michael W. Smith.  However, my biggest collection was Amy Grant.  Her music spoke to me like no other.

I would drink and sit in front of the record playing listening to Amy Grant for hours.  It was the closest I could feel to Jesus and God.  I was drink, cry, sing, and pray.  One of her newest songs is, “Better Than A Hallelujah.”  One line says, God loves the drunkard’s cry………Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.   I believe God hears anyone who cries out to Him-sober, drunk, scared, angry, even sinners.

There were a couple of songs I played over and over again.  There were my prayers when I couldn’t pray.

Raining on the Inside

God sees my heart–The deepest part

Inside this lonely me

And reachin’ in -His love begins

To heal the heart in me

I’m raining on the inside

Oh, my heart wells up with tears that start to pour

I’m raining on the inside

But then your cries of love break through

And I fall in love with you once more

 

Arms of Love

Lord, I’m really glad you’re here

I hope you feel the same when you see all my fear

And how I fail  -  I fall sometimes

It’s hard to walk in shifting sand

I miss the rock and find, I have nowhere left to stand

I start to cry

Lord, please help me

Raise my hands so you can pick me up

Hold me close  –  Hold me tighter

Storms will come and storms will go

Wonder just how many storms it takes until

I finally know   –  You’re here always

Even when my skies are far from gray

I can stay  –  Teach me to stay there

I have found a place where I can hide

It’s safe inside  —  Your arms of love

Like a child who’s helped throughout a storm

You keep me warm –  In your arms of love

 

Sometime around 2:00am on the morning of April 11^th, 1987, I sat on my mattress on the floor in the little corner of the room where I slept.  I was so lost and so alone.  I was drunk.  I was always drunk.  I was playing those songs and singing as loud as I could.  (This much to the confusion and dismay of the young man who brought me home that night.  He didn’t stay long.)   I had what is described by many in recovery as “a moment of clarity.”  It was in church terms, my burning bush experience.  I knew in that moment God was with me and that Jesus had never left my head and my heart.  I had tried to drown Him with alcohol and destroy Him with drugs.  But, He was there in that moment.  I was clear-headed for the first time in months.   I took a deep breath and said, “OK God.  I get it.  I am an alcoholic and need you in my life.  I am willing to do whatever you want me to do.”

I feel sleep and awoke about noon the next day.  I stayed in my corner of the room and thought about the events of the night before.  I remembered exactly what had happened and I knew what I had to do.  I finally showered, got something to eat and pulled out the AA meeting schedule my therapist had given me.   I figured out which bus to take.  There were no busses running late enough to get me home.  I would have to figure that out later.  I had to walk about a mile and a half to the bus stop.  I decided to try a new shortcut and got lost.  I arrived at the bus stop to see the bus pulling away.

I started to pray.  I couldn’t understand why God would abandon me like this when I was clearly following His will for me.  But, I was going to keep my word.  I would walk to the meeting.  I had no idea how far away it was.  I started walking.  It started raining.  I walked into a convenience store and asked for directions.  The meeting was at a church and they told me it was almost six miles away.  I didn’t care.  I went back outside and started walking.

I made the decision to hitchhike.  It was the only way to make the meeting in time.  I asked God to protect me and send the right person to help.  This was not the first time I had hitchhiked.  I usually did that drunk.  I had never attempted it sober.   A car pulled over and they took me to the church.

It was a really big church.  The parking lot was filled.  I wondered if the church was having a service or classes of some kind.  How would I ever find this meeting?  I walked towards the front steps.  I tried to look as if I fit in with the nice church folks.   There was a sign at the top that read, “Step Meeting Room 105 and Newcomer Meeting Room 101.”   It didn’t say which room held the AA meeting.  I wasn’t about to ask any of these good people and give myself away.  (For those of you in recovery–you can stop laughing now.)  Step meetings and Newcomer meetings are both AA meetings.  To my surprise, all the people there that night were coming to the AA meetings.

I saw a set of double doors with a small window.  I looked inside and saw a table at the front, a lot of chairs and some AA brochures.  I walked in and approached a red-headed woman at the front.

“I’m not sure where I am supposed to be.”

She raised her eyes and took a long look at me.  “When was your last drink?”

I counted back the hours.  “About 15 hours ago, I think.”

“Sounds about right.  Sit down.  You are in the right place, my all American girl.”

I sat down confused by her statements.   Immediately a woman named Pat came and sat next to me.

“Hi, I’m Pat.  I’m an alcoholic.  Want some coffee?”

“I guess so. Why did that woman call me all American Girl?”
Pat laughed.  “Your eyes are red, white, and blue.”  Let me go get you some coffee and cookies.  It will help with the shakes.”

As she walked away, I looked at the wall and saw a huge banner.  It was the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, but I only saw three.   I later learned they only post the first three steps at Newcomers or Beginners meeting.  I read them and when I got to Step 3, I almost bolted.  Step 3 says, “Made a decision to turn our lives and our will over to the care of God, as we understood Him.”   I decided AA must be some kind of secret organization run by the Baptists to make people stop drinking alcohol.  I certainly wanted no part of that.

Pat returned and started talking, taking my mind off the words on the wall.  I don’t remember much about that meeting.  What I do remember are the people, the caring, the phone numbers people started handing me, the ride home, walking to the front of the room to get a white chip-a plastic token signifying the desire for new way of life, and a feeling that I was exactly where God wanted me.  And for just a moment, I could even imagine dancing with Jesus.

Sadie Louise may be a dog but she sure got it right.  “Drunks drink because they miss Jesus.”

Lies of Shame

I read a blog post today entitled, “Overachievers and “Winners” Feel Shame Too.” 

http://readingremy.com/2012/03/26/overachievers-and-winners-feel-shame-too/

The author is Remy Diederich of Healing the Hurts of Your Past; a guide to overcoming the pain of shame.   In this blog he says, “Here’s a key to understanding the pain of shame…Shame has little to do with the bad things that have happened to you or the bad things that you have done. Shame has everything to do with the lies you believe about yourself.”

I reread that passage several times.  I thought about it for a long time.   I started to ask myself what are the lies I have believed about myself.    I believed I was stupid, worthless, fat, and ugly; you get the idea.  I believed God only loved people with the right kind of faith.  I obviously didn’t have the right kind.  No matter how hard I tried to be good enough, I failed. I believed I was flawed.  I believed I was unlovable.    The lies influenced the way I behaved.  My behavior reinforced the lies.  It was truly a vicious cycle.

I have been able to identify the lies and find the truth over the years.   I have to keep myself in check or I might begin to believe them again.    In recovery circles we say, “We are only as sick as our secrets.”   Step Five (in Twelve Step Groups) says, “Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.”   I am very careful about the “human beings” I trust with my secrets.    However, I now believe that God can handle it.  I understand something called forgiveness and grace.  I have learned to be honest with myself.   Being honest means not believing the lies.

I recently started attending church after a very, very long absence.  Shame was one of the things that kept me away.  I am learning to let go of my fear and my shame. I often talk about the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous.  I don’t often talk about my other book. The one we refer to in recovery circles as “The BIG Big Book”- The Bible.  I have a harder time understanding everything in the Bible.   I have been reading Romans 7 and 8 the past week.   I am trying to read it without my old self getting in the way.

This will be a first for my writing, but I want to share the last verses of Chapter 8.

31 What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? 32 He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? 33 Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. 34 Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. 35 Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? 36 As it is written:

   “For your sake we face death all day long;    we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.” Psalm 44:22

37 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 38 For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, 39 neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Turtle Talk

As I returned home this afternoon, I was shocked to see a large turtle creeping along the road in front of my house.    I live in a neighborhood called “The Lakes”.  We actually have a large lake near my house.   There are mornings I must slow down or stop to let the ducks geese cross the road, but never a turtle.

I stopped my car to block other cars from hitting the turtle.  I was so afraid someone would come racing around the corner destroying this creature.  I grabbed my phone, called my husband, and demanded he come outside immediately.   My “inner child” took over.  She was determined.

“Look.  The turtle came out of the lake.  We have to get her out of the road.  Why would she leave?  Can we pick her up?  Will she bite?”  I never took a breath between questions.   My husband just waited until he could interrupt.

“I don’t know why it is in the road and yes, it will bite”

“Well, you have to do something.  We can’t leave her here.   Should I pick her up and move her into the yard?”   The speed and intensity of my tirade increased.

My husband found a large plastic tub, picked her up and placed her inside.  We put her in the back of my car and drove around the corner to the lake.  We turned her loose and as she slid back into the lake I felt a sense of relief.   I returned to my grownup being and thanked my husband for helping.  I wondered why the turtle had left the safety of the lake to travel on such treacherous ground.  I wondered why I cared so much.

I grew up in a small neighborhood on the Stono River.  We were actually just one big circle.  There were homes on the river and homes on the canals leading to the river.  My home was one bend of the canal.  We lived in the “country.”  That meant we were six miles from the nearest grocery store or gas station, had PO Boxes for addresses, and were surrounded by not only water, but also trees and woods.

Carol and I swam off my dock all spring and summer.  We also chased fiddler crabs in the pluff mud at low tide, nursed baby rabbits and birds that had been abandoned or injured, and outran snakes from time to time.  We built forts out of moss and huddled inside with our dogs while pretending we were in another time and place.   There was a huge oak tree between my house and Carols.  We climbed the branches and nestled into our favorite spots.  We talked about real life, our dreams, and all the things young girls share.  At other times, we sat in silence feeling safe in the arms of that tree and with each other.

I often think back to those days.  We had such great plans for our lives.  We had magnificent dreams.  We would do things differently than our parents.  We would get married, have children, and raise them together.  Of course we would always live near each other.  Little girls in our era weren’t taught to have many dreams outside of one husband, 2.4 children, and house with a picket fence.    But, we did often dream bigger dreams.   We just didn’t tell anyone else about them.

I wonder if the turtle was trying to escape her life or searching for a better life.  I wonder if she was scared.  I wonder if she was sick leaving her home to find a place to die peacefully.  I wonder if she had any idea where she was going.  I wonder if she is resentful she was taken back.  I wonder if she will leave again.

Perhaps I saw something of my life and myself in this turtle. I left the place I grew up as soon as I could.  I set out on my own journey.  I traveled many dangerous and treacherous roads along the way.  It seemed there was always someone to nudge me off the road, point me in another direction, or at times, to pick me up and take me to safety.  At times, I was grateful but at other times, I resented the interference.

As my life journey continues, I plan to take roads others will question.  I am sure some will try to change my course.  At times, there may be roadblocks and I will be forced to choose another direction.  Some may seem frightening and long.     I am not even sure I know where I am going.    But, I know I am not alone.  It seems that God loves me where I am and that He has been and will be with me wherever I go.    God taught me a lesson today with a turtle in the road.  Cool—huh?

Women I Admire

Since 1948 Gallup has conducted polls to find the most admired men and women in America.  Newsweek followed the lead and conducts polls of its own.  In America it seems we admire the “First Lady” whomever that may be every year.  We add on some others from time to time such as Mother Theresa, Golda Meir, and Margaret Thatcher. Oprah has made both lists however she leads in the Newsweek poll.

My list doesn’t include Oprah or any of the First Ladies.  The women I admire haven’t made national news, lead a country, or had their pictures in Newsweek.

I don’t believe any of them are wealthy or have achieved fame.  I believe they all would be surprised to be on anyone’s most admired list. Nonetheless, they are on my list and I would love to share them with you. I think the list will be in chronological order since it would be difficult to number them according to admiration.

 

Mama Pearl came into my life when I was seven years old.  She lived around the corner from my house in a very small neighborhood.  Her daughter Carol was to become my best friend for life. I spent as much time as I could at her house. I ate dinner with them, took vacations with the family, and slept over every chance possible.  Mama Pearl taught us how to pull taffy, do the Hula, and how to put playing cards on the spokes of our bikes.  She taught me how to use lipstick and shave my arms and legs.  Is that TMI?   You see, my Grandmother didn’t believe in those things.  Mama Pearl often convinced her to allow things that without her may never have happened.

She loved God and took her children to church every Sunday.  Her husband wanted no part of church. Of course he was usually hung over on Sunday mornings.  I had to go to my church on Sunday mornings but Grandmother would let me go with Mama Pearl on Sunday night.  She sang in the choir and I loved to listen to hear sing.

When Carol started first grade Mama Pearl went to school and got her cosmetologist license.  She tasked me with making sure Carol got on and off the right bus every day.  Mama Pearl trusted me. Grandmother didn’t trust me to do anything. After working in a local shop for a few years, the owner retired and Mama Pearl bought the shop.  I never knew women could own a business.

Mama Pearl ran the beauty shop until she was in her late 70’s.  She sold the business and they invited her to work at the shop as long as she wanted.  She worked until a couple of weeks before she died.  So many people loved her.  Her funeral service was standing room only.  This was in sharp contrast to my Grandmother who I am told had only three people at her graveside service.

I was able to be in the hospital with Mama Pearl during her last days.  She died with the same love for God, love for others, and dignity she had during her life.

People ask me why I called her Mama Pearl.  I was 18, in college, and decided I was an adult.   I stopped in to see her at the shop and made the mistake of calling her Pearl.  The look she gave let me know I was in trouble.  “Young lady” she said, “You will never be old enough to call me Pearl.”  And from that day on, she was Mama Pearl.

 

Rev. Ann Vincent Adkins   I met Ann in 1981.  She was a student at the Seminary my husband was attending.  She taught an aerobics class on campus. I decided to try the class since I had little interest in most of the other classes open to the “seminary wives.”   She was a strong woman, outspoken, self-sufficient, and going to be a minister.  I had never met anyone like her. I had never met a woman minister before.

During class one night she tripped and in a rather loud voice she said, “Oh Damn.”  After class she checked in with me.  She wondered if I was upset with her use of such profanity.  I told her my rather naïve understanding of ministers.  She laughed and said we needed to talk.  As she turned she told me that God still loved you even if you said “damn.”

Our friendship grew from there.  She helped me come to an understanding of God’s love I had never known.  She helped me learn to fight back and stand up for who I was.   She taught me to believe in myself for the first time.

When I started having problems with alcohol and drugs she tried to help me.  She had already discovered Al-Anon.  She learned to stop helping.  She was the last one I called on the night I tried to end my life.  She told me she couldn’t take this road with me any longer.  She gave me the number for the area Hotline and pleaded with me to call.  I did make the call that night.  And that lead me to Jan and sobriety.  Ann is now a United Methodist minister serving in Cumberland, Md.

 

Dr. Jeanette Fisk   Everyone who knows me knows the name Jan.  She came into my life in March of 1987.  She had her Doctorate in Clinical Psychology and served as contributor and editor of The Maryland Psychologist.   She was the first woman in Maryland to receive national certification as a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. Her list of accomplishments is long.

I met her as my therapist and after leaving therapy we became friends.  We shared an amazing friendship for 20 years. She was my unofficial sponsor for my twelve-step program, my coach, my confidant, spiritual adviser, and best friend.

She genuinely cared about people. She accepted people where she met them without judgment. She struggled with her relationship with God but believed that no matter how much struggle was involved the love of God would always break through.  She fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves and she taught those who could fight to stand strong. She touched the lives of many people during her life.

She died very suddenly in March of 2008.  I miss her smile, her voice, her humor, and her friendship.

 

Charlotte Anderson  I met Charlotte in 2000.  She has served as the director of our local Hotline for over 25 years.  Very few people in the Charleston Tricounty area do not know Charlotte. She is genuine, loving, compassionate, wise, and enthusiastic about life.  Her passion is helping others.

I often share a story of going to my new gynecologist.  Karen is also an amazing woman.  We had a brief conversation about my life, my job, and so on before the uncomfortable procedure  women know all too well.   As she started the exam she began a bit of small talk, usually designed to make the patient feel more comfortable in an awkward situation.  However, her conversation began with, “So how is Charlotte doing?”  Seems Karen had been a Hotline volunteer at one time.

Charlotte gave me my dream job.  I had prayed for God to show me a way to work with and help people.  I didn’t have the right kind of degree or credentials. I applied as Volunteer Coordinator for the Hotline and she took a chance on me. She has been a mentor and friend for the past eleven years.  She has been instrumental in growing our local hotline to become a 2-1-1 certified and AAS/AIRS certified center.  She works long hours but still finds time to volunteer at other agencies.  She is loved and respected by all that know her

_________________________________________________.

I am so grateful for the women in my life today. I grew up with very few models of what it meant to be a strong, powerful woman.  I understood my role as a woman to be “less than.”  I went to college and was married before the end of my first semester.  I was congratulated for going to college and getting my “Mrs.” Degree.  I was a good subservient wife.  They said Jesus expected me to put everyone’s needs before mine-always.  I was told God created woman to serve man. I didn’t see any of that when I read the Bible but I was told I was wrong.  I was told I was even wrong to ask the question.

The women in my life today are from many walks of life.  I have friends who are professors, pastors, teachers, business owners, community leaders, activists, homemakers, in the military, and more.  I have friends who are singe, divorced, happily married, widowed, gay, single moms, liberal, conservative and any other label you may find.

But what makes them important in my life is who they are, not what they are or what they do.  They believe in the uniqueness of each person.   They are women who are willing to share their experience, their ideas, their stories, and their love.  They are the women I admire.

Rocking in Summerville

  “8th earthquake in 5 months recorded near Summerville” was the headline on our local news website.  The   earthquakes have ranged between 1.5 and 2.6 magnitude on the Richter scale.  Earthquakes are rated between 2.0 and 10.0.  The higher the number the more devastation expected.  There are over 1.3 million earthquakes in the 2.0-2.9 range per year.  People generally don’t feel earthquakes of this size.  Once you get to 3.0, you can expect some shaking and so on.

I haven’t felt any of the earthquakes in Summerville.  I have an office in Summerville in Town Square.  Truth is the train causes more shaking and aggravation on a daily basis than these earthquakes.   However, they typically cause more conversation.  There are people who must be quite sensitive to the earth moving (no pun intended) for they feel each one of the tremors.   The conversation will inevitably turn to the “big one.”

For the past few years, we have added earthquake disaster preparedness drills.  Earthquakes, train derailments, and dirty bomb drills have replaced the hurricane scenarios we practiced for so many years.   Summervillians are familiar with the small dirt road off Miles Jamison named Fault Line Drive.    Middleton Place Summerville Seismic Zone (MPSSZ), located about 20 km northwest of Charleston is the most active seismic zone in South Carolina.  On August 31, 1886 a 7.6 earthquake rocked Charleston causing many building to crumble. I don’t deny the potential for another big one.  I just don’t spend much time thinking about it.

Perhaps I take it too lightly, but I am much more concerned about hurricanes.  As a Charleston native, I have been through many hurricanes.  My first hurricane was Gracie.  I was eight years old.   The tornadoes and winds destroyed the Limehouse Bridge and the newly built Saint Andrews Shopping Center.  I was not living in Charleston for Hurricane Hugo but mention the name and anyone living here at the time will share the details of the devastation.

Perhaps I make fun of the baby tremors because I have lived through two major earthquakes (6.0-7.0) and many mini earthquakes (4.0-5.0) while living in California and Nevada.  They were expected.   In 1971, I was living in Hollywood. Ca. when we experienced two earthquakes near 6.0 hit almost simultaneously.  Our cabinets flew open throwing dishes and glasses onto the floor.  Trees and electric lines lay across the streets.  Electric power was out for couple of days.   Buildings were damaged and a levy threatened to break.  Aftershocks were felt for days.  We had only been in California for a month when the earthquakes hit.  There was no warning, no alarms, no radio broadcasts.   At least hurricanes give warning long before they hit.

While living in Nevada, West Virginia, and Maryland, I experienced several blizzards and white outs.  Driving becomes a death wish, trees fall, roofs cave in, and power outages can be life threatening.  The Native Americans call a particular type of ice storm Pogonip or “White Death.”   During the winter, you make sure you have extra supplies and propane heaters ready to go.

I have been chastised for not being concerned about the dangers of the next Charleston earthquake.   I just think I am going to save my anxiety and fear for the next big Charleston hurricane. On the other hand, maybe one of those huge Air Force Cargo planes that fly low enough for eye contact with the pilot will crash into my backyard.  You know for someone with all those fear issues, I think I am dealing with the next “BIG ONE” pretty well.

I HATE COMMAS

“When a thought takes one’s breath away, a grammar lesson seems an impertinence.”

Thomas W. Higginson quotes (American Clergyman, Author, Minister and Abolitionist, 1823-1911)

 

I have decided to create a new app.  I haven’t decided on a name but the premise behind the app is that most people hate commas as much as I do.   The app will work much like Grammar Check in Word.  It will take your writing and add or subtract commas as necessary.   Grammar Check in Word is useless when it comes to commas.

My friend from England tells me they have different rules for commas and quotation marks, etc. than we do here in the states.  When you search the internet for answers, you find conflicting answers.  The rule is usually this but sometimes you can do it the other way.    This is the rule but it is optional.  How is a rule optional?  If it were optional, wouldn’t that be a suggestion?

To join two independent clauses, use a comma followed by a conjunction, a semicolon alone, or a semicolon followed by a sentence modifier.   I found this on a site claiming to make understanding grammar simple.  I am challenging their claim.  This reads more like something from an attorney.  It is rule number one of eleven.  A page of examples and exceptions follows each rule.

Before I started sharing my writing with others, I didn’t really care about grammatical syntax, changing verb tenses, colons, semicolons, dangling participles, and more.  Now, as I begin to write I am suddenly back in high school trying to memorize rules about commas and diagramming sentences.   (Grammar Check just told me to put a comma after suddenly.  REALLY?)

I took a writing class last year and part of the critique I received was that I tended to use run on sentences and change verb tense at different times.   Yes, I use run on sentences.  I know I do.  When I edit a piece, I look for sentences I can separate.  I also tend to use the passive voice too much.  Is that a Freudian thing?  Maybe it is a reflection on life.  I hope not.   The teacher told me a couple of things about my writing style are things she typically doesn’t recommend for writers, but I do them so well, I should break the rules.

I sometimes feel I lose something in my writing by being so concerned about all the grammar rules.   I would hate to have my writing disregarded because of the incorrect use of commas.   Either I create an app that will handle the commas and make other grammatical errors easier to remedy or I my friend from England to correct all of it.   She is one of the best proofreaders I know.  Neither seems like a perfect solution.    If you figure this out, please let me know.  Just be sure the grammar is correct!

Stop Thinking – Start Writing

 

Out of frustration, I posted something on facebook last night about my lack of ability to write the past few days.   Or should I say to write what I deemed acceptable.  I also mentioned deleting some things I wrote yesterday.   I received a couple of emails and comment posts.  All seemed to express the same ideas.  To put it in the simplest form would be to say “stop thinking-start writing.

My son is a talented writer and I know he struggles with some of these same thoughts.     He quoted one of his writing instructors saying, “Fear never starts-perfect never finishes.”   I seem to accomplish both goals.  For those who have read my blogs and other writings, you know fear plays a big part in my life.  I continue to work to overcome that character defect.   I am also a perfectionist and people pleaser.  Yes, I am working on that, too.

I was reminded not to delete things and to kick my editor to the curb.  The words came from a new friend.  She is a writer and former English teacher.  I somehow feel compelled to do what she says.     I am excited to have her in my life and look forward to getting to know her better. Yet another friend reminded me to take the advice I so often give her.

Writing isn’t new to me.  Sharing my writing is what I feel called to do and what terrifies me most.  I remember writing my first story in third grade.  The assignment was to draw a picture and tell a story to our class.  I walked to the front of the room and froze in front of the class.  I just stood there with my picture praying for a fire alarm.  My teacher was kind and understanding.    She told the class we had run out of time and I would have to wait until the next day.  After class she asked me to go home and write my story.  The next day she allowed me to read the story to the class.

Great!  We had a happy ending.  I wish that were so.  The kids in the class laughed.  My grandmother found my story.  She tore it up.  She was shocked I would write such communist propaganda.  She said God didn’t want little girls thinking they were smarter or stronger than boys.   He made little girls to be mothers when they grew up.  If they absolutely had to work they could be nurses and teachers.  Satan put those other ideas in my head.  All I did was draw flowers.

My picture showed three small yellow flowers and one beautiful red flower.  My story told of the three smaller flowers trying to find water and a place to grow without rocks and so much shade.  They all had boy’s names.  The beautiful red flower was named Katie.  Because she grew so tall and beautiful the people in the village came and cleared the land and brought water.  The flowers and village people all lived happily ever after.   I am still not sure how she determined my story contained communist propaganda.  Maybe it was the red flower.

It would be years before I dared to write another story on paper.  I created stories in my mind all the time.  They took me to safer and happier places.  They allowed me to be brave and free.    I was too ashamed to write any of them down.  I tried for many years to be the good girl they all wanted me to be.

I was 35 years old when I would write again.  My therapist, Jan, insisted I keep a journal.  I only needed to share it with her if and when I was ready.  I started to write every day.   At first it was a paragraph or two.  Soon it because pages.  My pen couldn’t keep up with my thoughts.   I felt alive when I wrote.  After a while, I did share some of my writing with Jan.

Jan and I became friends after I left therapy.  She encouraged me to write and look for ways to share my writing.  We didn’t have personal computers or blogs at that time.   I moved away but continued my writing.  I also wrote very long letters to her every week.   I took a couple of classes at a local community college and the teacher encouraged to keep writing.

I remarried and my writing soon stopped.  I had once again married someone who would control and manipulate my life.  I didn’t even see it coming.    He threw away my box filled with old journals.  He told me I wasting my time.  No one would want to read anything I wrote.   After all I was just a woman without an education or talent.

With the help of Jan and our friend Donna, I found my way out and came back home.  Jan encouraged me to start journaling again.  I swore I would never put anything on paper again.  But soon I a brought home my first computer.  It was a used Packard Bell and had WordPerfect.    I could write without pen or paper and I could put a password on this creature to protect my writing.  I began to write again.

I didn’t start to share my writing until 2008.  I wrote a piece for a small magazine for people in recovery.    Later they would publish a poem I wrote as well.  And of course Blogger came into my life.   I started with a public blog and then added a private blog.  The public blog was listed in the “Blog Worth Reading” section in Moxie, the online Women’s section of the Post and Courier.  I recently stopped writing the public blog and have opened my private blog.  Last year three of my articles were included in an online addictions magazine.

I returned to therapy in 2009.   I once told Rhonda I would do much better in therapy if we could do it in writing.  She didn’t think much of the idea, but she did encourage me to write.  She found a workshop held here in Charleston and encouraged me to go.  It was held yearly on Folly Beach at the Writer’s Retreat.  Mary Ann Henry is the resident artist and leads the workshop called “Writing is Good for the Soul.”   I told Rhonda it was too expensive.  She told me to apply for a scholarship.   I got the scholarship and was terrified.

I arrived at the beach on Friday afternoon.  Introductions began.  The first woman was a published author.  The others had impressive backgrounds.  I introduced myself and all I could say was, “I love to write.”   And for that group that weekend, it was enough.   I was home.

The lesson I remember most took place the first evening.  Just before the sun began to set we walked out to the beach with pen, journal, and a blanket.  We sat facing the ocean.  Mary Ann talked about the beauty surrounding us.  I started to jump ahead and think of all the wonderfully descriptive words I could use.  She asked us to put all those things out of our minds for now.  She wanted us to look at the horizon as far as we could see.  Then she asked us to look beyond all we could see and write from our soul.  “Don’t think, don’t stop, just write” she said.

So I will do just that.   Time to stop writing about not being able to write or being afraid to write.   When I left therapy last year, Rhonda emailed me.  She said, “I think there is a very important book inside of you. You trusted me enough to allow me to take this very personal journey with you and I hope you will share it with others.”    So be it a book, a blog, or something I share one on one, I will write because I know in my heart and soul it is what I am supposed to do.

Get Ready World

How many times have I heard, “you ought to write a book.”?

I haven’t actually kept count but it was enough to encourage me to take the challenge.  I have written a lot over the past couple of years.  Problem is I keep changing my mind about the project.

I have written it using real names and places.  I changed my plan and created “character” names.  For example I call my best friend from childhood Red.  OK, so that isn’t overly creative since she has red hair.  You get the idea.   Yet another plan was to write the story as fiction.

I created a title I loved and then I changed it.  And changed it again; and again.  I did an outline, and then decided to drop the idea of an outline and just go with chapters.   Later I decided to just freelance and write where the keyboard took me.   I don’t write with pen and paper because I can’t read my handwriting.

In January I decided to return to my original plan and title.  I am rewriting an outline and have decided to let it be a bit flexible.  I am going to look back at everything I have written and see what to keep and what to dump.   I am making a commitment to myself to finish a first draft this year.  I am going to ask a few people to help hold me accountable.

I am going to do Camp NaNo in June but I will not be working on the novel I started.  I will be working on adding 50,000 words to this book.  No one reads what you write with any NaNo event so even though this will not be fiction; I am going to tackle it.

I would love to share bits and pieces as I go and ask for your thoughts.   I am prepared for and asking you to be brutally honest.   And I promise not to scream, cry, or write you out of the dedication page if you tell me to rewrite the entire section.

My book’s title is Mothers, Monsters, Madness, and Miracles.   The story will of course contain details of my life but it is so much more than that.    It is the story of God working in my life in spite of people and circumstances.   Amy Grant‘s song Ask Me says it best.  It has these lyrics:

Ask her how she knows there’s a God up in the Heaven
Where did He go in the middle of her shame?
Ask her how she knows there’s a God up in the Heaven
She said His mercy is bringing her life again
She’s coming to life again
He’s in the middle of her pain, in the middle of her shame

Yes, there will be monsters and madness in the story.  But it ends with miracles.  What about the mothers?  I had many mothers in my life.  Some not so great and some who taught me everything I needed to know about life, love, friendship, hope, and yes, even faith.   The ironic and complicated way some of these women came into my life could only have been orchestrated by God.

Mother has so many meaning.   I did have a biological mother and an adopted mother (my grandmother).   I had a step-mother as well.   I had women come into my life who were protective, nurturing, and loving.   They taught me about love. They taught me to question, to believe, to wonder, to hope, and most importantly they helped me find the courage to tell my story.

Freak Magnet

“There’s a quality of legend about freaks.  Like a person in a fairy tale who stops you and demands that you answer a riddle. Most people go through life dreading they’ll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They’ve already passed their test in life. They’re aristocrats.”
― Diane Arbus

My sister often refers to me as “freak magnet.”  My husband has picked up the name for me as well.  If asked why they refer to me that way, they will be happy to share the stories of people (grocery clerks, waitresses, people in waiting rooms, strangers) telling me their story.

When my sister still lived in Charleston I would drive her to Jacksonville every three months for medical procedures she needed at Mayo Clinic.   On our first visit I chose a comfortable seat by the large window overlooking the beautiful landscape of Mayo.  A women seated several chairs away called, “come sit with me.”   I obediently grabbed my things and went to the chair opposite her.  They called Jill to come back for her test. She looked back over her shoulder giving me one of those “are you serious” smiles.   When Jill returned I introduced her to the woman.  She invited us to stay at her home when we returned to Jacksonville.   I gathered my things and the woman stood to hug me.  As we walked away, Jill coined the nickname “freak magnet.”

It is of course meant as a joke but it often bothers me when we refer to another person as a freak.    I will tell you that I do seem to be a “magnet” but I am still not comfortable referring to those who seem drawn to me as freaks.

I spent a great deal of my life thinking of myself as a freak.  One definition in Webster’s  describes freak as “one that is markedly unusual or abnormal.”  I’ve always thought of myself that way.   I didn’t have the kind of childhood, parents or life experiences other kids had.  I seemed to think about things differently.  I related to the phrase, “you are ugly and your mother dresses you funny.”  I spent much of my life feeling different and alone.  Kids at school and church made fun of me.  I went to a small private church high school.  There were two or three girls I considered friends but only one true close friend.  She has been my best friend since I was seven and she was five.

Maybe that’s why these so-call freaks seem to find me.  Maybe they intuitively know I will understand.    Maybe they see the part of me that still feels afraid others still see me as a freak.  Maybe they see what the “normal” people can’t see; the part I work so hard to hide.

This afternoon we made a trip to my least favorite large discount store to purchase a few necessitates for the house.  My husband headed back to the home and garden center while I made my way to look for batteries.  I stopped  at one the displays when an older woman came up behind me.   My friends all know the dangers of approaching me from behind.   I have a horrible startle response.  As I heard her say “excuse me” I jumped and twirled around with a small squeal.   She apologized and held up pair of what appeared to be men’s semi high top tennis shoes.  They were a black suede type of material with black vinyl Velcro straps and fluorescent green soles that peaked around the top.  They looked like the cheap version of something my 14-year-old grandson wears.

She held up the shoe and said, “Do you think this would be OK to wear to a funeral?”

I paused looking for just the right words to answer this impossible question.   “Are you going to be wearing pants?”  I was hoping the answer was yes.   At least then the shoes would be partly covered.

“Oh, yes.  I don’t really have any dresses.  I have such big feet and it’s hard to find shoes.  I can’t wear heels because of my arthritis.”

I paused again.  “You know what?  I think you will be fine wearing those shoes.  Do you like them?”

“I………..I guess so.”

“I hope the family and friends would just be glad you came to support  them.” I explained.   One of the things we stress in teaching basic counseling skills to our Hotline volunteers is to never assume anything.  And boy was my assumption off on this one.

“Well, the funeral is for my son.   His girlfriend said he had been drinking but he wasn’t like that.  I don’t know what happened or why.  But two days ago he shot himself.”

Oh shit!  Deep breath.  “I am so sorry.  Sounds like you are hurting a lot right now.”

“Yeah.  And I don’t have the money to bury him.  I gotta have him cremated.  This is the second son I’ve  lost.  My first one is buried at the cemetery and I wanted him to be there too.  I guess I could take his ashes there.”

“I can hear how hard this is for you.   I do want you to know there is a place you can call and talk to someone any time.  There is also a support group here for people who have had someone died from suicide.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.  I’d  really like to find out about that.”

Funny how quickly I went into crisis counselor mode.  I wrote down the numbers for her.  She continued to tell me her story.  She  moved here to be closer to her son.  She had to quit working a few years ago.  She now gets social security.  She lost her food stamps because she didn’t reapply in time. And well, you get the idea.

I heard the sound of R2D2 telling me I had a text message.  “Where are you?”  Larry asked.   I replied explaining that I was talking to someone.  “So what else is new?” was his reply.

The conversation went on for about 15 minutes.  I started to reach for my business card a couple of times.  I reminded myself about boundaries.   I used my wrapping up/closing skills to end our conversation.  As she started to walk away, I asked if I could give her a hug.   As she walked away from me, she turned and with tears in her eyes she simply said, “Thank you. I just knew I could talk to you.”

As Larry and I walked away he looked at me and said, “Freak Magnet.”    Maybe it’s true.  Actually I hope so.  I left that conversation with such a feeling of gratitude.  I am so grateful for all the “freak magnets”  who opened themselves to me when I needed one.

Just A Day on the Calendar

As I looked at my phone to see calendar reminders for the day, I also saw the reminders for tomorrow.  March 7 “meeting at 1pm and Elton John concert 8pm”.  I have known the date was coming.  I even thought I was prepared.  When I bought the Elton John tickets I knew the concert was March 7.  I was so excited to be taking my 14-year-old grandson to hear one of the legends of music. Jan loved music as much as I did.  What a great way to feel close to her again.

I did so well last year; some tears, some remembering, some joy in celebrating her life.  I was so proud of my new, ever so grown up, spiritual way of looking at death and loss.  I was doing so well with everything in life that I no longer needed to see my therapist.  We did good work together.  After Jan died I knew (because everyone told me)  I needed help.  It was one more time when God directed my steps and lead me to Rhonda.  During my two years with her my husband lost his job and his health, my Mother died, my “other” Mother died, I had a major change in my position at work, health issues, and more.

But as I saw the date on my calendar this morning everything changed.  I felt such anger.  “Come on–it is only a date on the calendar.  Nothing has changed”, I told my self.  I took a deep breath and finished getting dressed.  I yelled at the dog for getting under foot.  I grabbed my briefcase and rushed out the door.

I turned up the music in the car to drown out my thoughts.  Someone pulled out in front of me.  I screamed, “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you a f—ing idiot?” Of course they couldn’t hear me..thank goodness.    The radio was still blaring and these words caught my ear:

Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You’re near?

What if my greatest disappointments, or the aching of this life;
Is a revealing of greater thirst that a world can’t satisfy?

And what if trials of this life, the rain, the storms, the hardest nights;
Are Your mercies in disguise? (LYRICS BY LAURA STORY)

“Really? You want me to believe all the pain and heartache we experience is just so we can feel close to you, God? Is this suppose to make me feel all warm and fuzzy?  How about a miracle when she was waiting for the ambulance to arrive after her massive heart attack?  Much easier than parting the Red Sea, don’t you think?”

I walked into my office and shut my door.  I told the staff I needed to finish a report.  I sat here fighting the anger and tears.  I told God I was sorry for being such a bitch.  I really needed some help because I have work I have to do.  I can’t hide in here all day.   Just something..anything..please.

A Facebook notification popped up. As I opened Facebook, a previous post caught my eye.  My friend’s mother in law passed away on Monday.  She shared a conversation she had with her 3-year-old Lydia.  I hope she doesn’t mind that I share this with you here.

“Gary and his Dad are still at the hospital making sure Gary’s Mum is comfortable. I came home to put Lydia to bed. I talked to Lydia earlier today about what was happening to Grandma. So when we got home, I asked Lydia if she knew what was happening to Grandma and she said she was dying. Then we talked about different sicknesses. Then Lydia said that Grandma would be dancing and happy. I asked her how she knew that and Lydia said, because she likes to dance! Do you think kids have special conversations with the dying and dead?! It was probably a flukey 3-year old thing to say, but you never know!”

I quietly slipped outside and took a short walk around downtown Summerville. Gentle tears came as I walked. And then a smile. Jan loved music so much.  I felt her presence. I felt her singing and dancing.  I heard her say, “It’s only a day the calendar.”