Tag Archives: accountability

Sticking Up.

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A post I wrote a couple of years back has been making the rounds again, and has brought with it a bunch more followers.

I always get a little nervous when this happens, like I’m being thought of as this Sobriety Guru, like a wizened Yoda-type sitting on a lily pad doling out sagacious tidbits about not drinking, when really I’m just another clown on the bus trying to stay on board. I mean, you’re dealing with someone who sticks her eighth grade picture into pre-existing photos and works of art. I am really NOT the person to look towards for sanity and wisdom, y’all.

So I feel a responsibility to let folks know that while I do a fair amount of talking about recovery, it’s not the ONLY thing I talk about, and a lot of times you’re going to also get stuff about Alzheimer’s, zombies, and garden variety potty humor. If that’s not your bag, and you want to bail, I will totally understand. But getting sober frequently means rediscovering other areas of interest, and one of the great things about sobriety is that while it’s still gotta be first and foremost, it doesn’t have to be ALL you talk about.

Something I will address today is sticking up for yourself and your sobriety. That can mean anything from shooting down overly-personal questions about why you quit to voicing your discomfort.

Case in point: I share a practice space with my bandmates. As someone who’s contributing to the rent, I think it’s fair of me to ask that people not leave their empties lying around after practice. It’s not like I’m going to run around drinking the dregs in said empties (although I definitely wouldn’t have been above that 13 years ago), but – you know – I also don’t particularly want to look at them, either. So the other night, I politely asked folks to pitch them in the trash can in the hallway. I’m not a Puritan by any stretch of the imagination, and I get that sometimes people want to have a beer at practice. I was able to express my discomfort about the empties in a respectful way, and everyone was on board with being a little tidier.

That’s maybe an overly-simplistic example, but I think a lot of alcoholics/addicts also have fallen into the habit of being really, really passive aggressive. Before I started really getting into the work of being sober, I just assumed that everyone would immediately sense my discomfort and summarily capitulate without my having to say a damn thing. And if they didn’t, then I’d find some insanely roundabout way of getting what I wanted. That’s exhausting for everyone.

But what I’m basically trying to say is this: you’re dealing with something that could kill you; it’s okay to protect yourself. You have the right to turn down invitations to parties if you feel you’re going to be uncomfortable in any way. You have the right to ask if a get-together can take place somewhere other than a bar (I’m usually okay in a bar if it’s also a restaurant, and I can occupy myself with nachos or fries). I’ve learned over the years to understand that this is NOT an outrageous proposition. If I know I’m going out to dinner with vegetarian/vegan friends, I will order vegetarian/vegan. It’s just common courtesy. I will say that it’s interesting that this is a courtesy that is very seldom extended to me as a non-drinker, even though I’m generally comfortable with someone ordering alcohol with dinner. I’d say less than 5% of the time I’m asked whether or not I’m okay with someone drinking in front of me, and maybe that’s because I’ve been pretty sanguine about it over the years. I don’t know. It’s nice to be asked, though.

I am, however, wicked uncomfortable around people who are obviously inebriated. That’s just plain no fucking fun at all, and it’s why I’ve sometimes either stayed home from a party, or bowed out early. As I get older, this becomes less of an issue, since most of my friends by and large aren’t into getting stupid drunk anymore. Me, there is always going to be that urge, however long it’s remained dormant. I am hard-wired for oblivion, and there are still days where I have to tread carefully, and it is 100% okay for me to ask my friends and loved ones to help me out when I’m on shaky ground. And it’s okay for you, too.

The Places That Scare You.

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If you haven’t been watching the news or following the Twitstagrambook feeds of your friends and loved ones in New England, we’ve been effectively hobbled by repeated “significant weather events” for several weeks now. We have been buried under many feet of filthy, dog-pee-and-car-exhaust-riddled snow. It’s not Currier & Ives; it’s the Apocalypse. Roofs have collapsed, snow emergencies and parking bans are everywhere, and public transportation has become a terrible, terrible joke.

Because of what I’ve learned in recovery, I am grasping onto a precious few straws of gratitude in the midst of all of this. One is that we have not lost power during any of the meteorological pummelings we’ve received. Another is that my mother-in-law is snug and warm in the memory unit of the assisted living facility she’s been in since late June. I cannot even fathom how awful all of this would have been had we still been in daily, on-the-premises charge of her care. I frequently have to stop and remind myself of this as I start to complain about the 10’ piles of snow outside our house which are obstructing our view of the 10’ piles of snow across the street.

But in the midst of all of this, we’re trying to move. Granted, we’re just moving from our downstairs apartment into the upstairs apartment formerly occupied by my mother-in-law. But this has required Herculean amounts of organizational skills which I do not possess. Purging a three-bedroom apartment of possessions and clutter acquired over a period of decades, when the former occupant is still among the living, is emotionally trying and just plain shittyawfulhorrid. It is constantly second-guessing and attempting to determine value, both sentimental and monetary, of these things. What goes to charity? What gets saved for the grandchildren? What gets thrown out? I try to be efficient, and wind up wandering weepily from room to room, overwhelmed to the point of distraction.

I have, however, managed to get most of this packed up. There are boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff that can go to charity at any time, except that it can’t really, because of the aforementioned piles of snow. They have turned our fairly wide street into a barely-plowed-out path flanked on both sides by pee-stained, icy behemoths. No truck could idle there for even 10 minutes without drawing the ire of our neighbors and those who use our street as a throughway to get onto Route 1 more quickly.

I am beyond stressed about this. We have to be completely moved upstairs in a matter of weeks; our friends are moving into the downstairs apartment and must do so by the end of March. The whole shebang requires trucks. Big trucks. If I think about it too much I start getting wheezy and unhinged. I mean, more so than usual.

So I’ll talk about one thing I managed to do which I’d been putting off for a long time, and that’s empty out the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Most people would think, “What’s terrible about that? You toss a couple of bottles of Drano and a few old hairbrushes, right?”

No, friends – that cabinet was filled not only with the things you’d expect to find in a bathroom cabinet, but a whopping load of real bad mojo.

As some of you know, the final year of in-home caregiving for us was pretty bad. My mother-in-law’s mental state had deteriorated to the point where she could not/would not care for herself in the most basic ways. Brushing her teeth. Bathing. Properly disposing of toilet paper. Her Alzheimer’s had also ramped up her pre-existing OCD, causing her to scratch and pick at her skin, leading to a constant threat of cellulitis and other infections. Mornings and evenings were spent donning latex gloves and coating her hands, arms, and ankles with both prescription and over-the-counter antibiotic ointment. Because she would slap at me and yell if I tried to get her to take a bath, many times I had to give up that particular battle and use pre-moistened washing mitts, which she would permit, up to a point, when she would then threaten to scream if I came near her with them. And when incontinence became an issue, the cabinet was then the home of the flushable wipes and Depends.

So this cabinet was something I’d been trying to avoid, even with the knowledge that I no longer was responsible for any of these things on any significant level. I just didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want to open the scary bathroom cabinet and deal with the physical and symbolic throwing away of these things. I felt guilt, remorse, sorrow, fear, and resentment, in varying order and degree. It felt very much like avoiding looking under the bed, or into my psyche, really the same thing if you think about it.

But one afternoon about 2 weeks ago, I grabbed a trash bag and did it. Out went the prescription ointment, the latex gloves, the Depends. What I could handle saving, I saved (boxes of gauze pads and BandAids, hand sanitizing wipes). I tied up the bag when I was done and brought it into the room where we’re storing all the stuff that needs to be thrown out/trucked away.

Here’s where I’d like to say that I felt as though a great weight was lifted, that I was washed clean in the light of my bravery or some such bullshit. It didn’t feel great. It felt sad. It felt crappy. I have to do this. When faced with any seemingly insurmountable obstacle, my mantra has always been “It’ll get done because it HAS to get done.” You’d be surprised how calming this actually is. It’s much more of a soul balm than “You don’t have to do it alone!” or “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle!” Because I’ve found that neither of those things are necessarily true. Sometimes you do have to do it alone. You have to go to the places that scare you, even when it’s just under the sink, and you have to do it alone. Because you HAVE been given more than you can handle, and this is one less thing you have to worry about.

Ranting While White

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One night, in the early 90s, I was drinking in a little bar on the campus of M.I.T. with my then-boyfriend and a couple of our friends. We were participating in an orgy of irony typical of the era: watching “Melrose Place” and drinking Knickerbocker in cans (which were ridiculously cheap – $2 each). I was buzzed and feeling somewhat out of my league, surrounded by all of these smart people, and what happened next is something that has haunted me for over two decades.

I started chastising Billy Dee Williams.

That sentence is utterly ridiculous, right? Comical, even. So hang with me for a few more sentences and I’ll explain why this is so awful.

I loudly declared that Mr. Williams was doing a “disservice” to “his community” by being the spokesperson for Colt 45, something that I personally had no problem drinking (because it was “ironic” – this was the early 90s, remember), but Billy Dee had no business promoting, because it was so abused in black neighborhoods and this was an act of betrayal that everyone should be aware of. And I, a twenty-something middle class white girl with a couple of Public Enemy records, was just the person to bring this to light, right?

(God, this is painful to write.)

All of a sudden, a young black man approached our table. “I couldn’t help but overhear what you’ve been saying about Billy Dee Williams.”

“Um, yeah?”

“Why do you think he doesn’t have the right to make his own decisions about how he wants to present himself?”

“Well, because….because what he’s doing is dangerous. Colt 45 is, like, aggressively promoted in poor neighborhoods and…that’s…um……bad…”

“So you’re basically saying that it would be like Geronimo promoting Jack Daniels.”

“I…”

“Yeah. Just checking. OK. You have a nice night.”

I squirmed in my seat, pounding another couple of $2 Knickerbockers, and stewed until the episode of “Melrose Place” was over and I could get my boyfriend to agree to leave. And I ranted at him for the entire walk home, and while we got undressed in his apartment, and even before we went to sleep. How dare that guy question my dedication to WHAT’S RIGHT. I was OPEN-MINDED AND AWARE.

Jesus.

I very much realize that I’m “uncomfortable” writing about this 20+ year old exchange because in doing so, I am outing myself as having engaged in some real smarmy, entitled bullshit. Because I know I am still on the cusp of doing so a lot of the time. Because in spite of my believing myself to be an ally, I understand that privilege drives the desire to make this about myself. Look at me. Look at how aware I am.

I tell this story because I am learning, from some really smart people whose writing pushes me to work through my discomfort and my increasing realization of my own biases and – yes – racist beliefs, that to be an ally is to listen, to share the space in quiet solidarity, and not to make what is happening right now a platform for MY opinions. It is not my place to monopolize the emotional energy. I’m not even sure that writing, and posting, this piece is the right thing to do. But I want to put it out there, to own my privilege and begin the work of unpacking it. I don’t want people cheering me on for being “brave” or assuring me that I don’t have a fuck ton of work to do on myself in the midst of all this pain and anger. That is REALLY not what I am going for.

I am saying: I have said some really dumb shit. I have been a self-styled expert on something that I personally have no experience with. I have ranted while white. I’m working on this.

To Megan.

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I was directed to this painful read yesterday.

It’s heartbreaking.

Heartbreaking, because even 12+ years away from my last drink (a plastic cup of warm Chardonnay, which I couldn’t even keep down, because my body was fighting valiantly to keep any more alcohol from braying through my bloodstream), I relate to EVERY GODDAMN THING she writes here. And I suppose I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful that I can still easily plug into the memories of how painful, awful, and shitsuckingly BORING it is to be an active alcoholic.

Yes, boring. When you are that dependent on something, your every waking minute revolves around it. Obsessing. Planning. Scheduling. Having “rules” for yourself which keep you from being a real alcoholic. Not drinking before 5. Not drinking at work. Not drinking more than ____ drinks a night (you can easily get around that by drinking out of really big glasses, or continually topping off your drink because – hey – if the glass isn’t totally empty, it’s still only one drink). It’s a second full-time job, one that reaps absolutely no benefits.

It’s lonely, too. This sentence jumped out at me:

I’m upset that I’ve yet again stayed up, alone in my apartment, until the wee hours of the morning, watching music videos on YouTube I’ve seen a million times and sending embarrassing emails, which I type with one eye closed, the other bloodshot and squinting, because I can’t see straight.

I stopped drinking before YouTube was a thing. I can only imagine how much time I would’ve spent watching videos of the drippier New Wave ballads from my formative years and dry-sobbing in front of my laptop, lamenting my lost youth. Or something. As it stands, I spent my time listening to these songs on my stereo, drunkenly fumbling with the 45 sleeves and CD cases, listening to them over and over again until I passed out. Alone. On the crappy little futon sofa while my husband slept in the next room. He actually bought me headphones so he wouldn’t have to listen to this, and thus have some semblance of peace in the midst of my emotional hostage-taking.

Alcoholism gets you where it wants you: alone. Isolated. I drank alone even in a room full of people. That’s the paradox of it – so many of us start drinking because we can’t function around people otherwise. Koester puts it this way: having a few drinks makes it “easier to interact with the world through a filter.” I, like many alcoholics, am wired for isolation. Most people who know me would find that surprising. It takes a tremendous amount of effort for me to go to a party, or to a show, or to any gathering of more than 3 people. Drinking made things easier. Drinking made me funnier, sexier, more creative. Until it just made me drunk. Until it made me prefer the company of my bottle (I certainly wasn’t enjoying my own company). Because to drink the way I wanted to drink required isolation. I couldn’t possibly drink as much as I was drinking around other people. Because they would know I had a problem. So fuck them. Fuck everybody.

Active alcoholism is also an inherently dishonest way to live. We compartmentalize our lives, being one person to one group of people (Wacky! Zany!) and an entirely different person to another group of people (Responsible! Considerate!), while being just one thing to ourselves: drunk.  And we manage this way for a long time, until we (if we’re lucky) come to the realization that we’re broken and in pieces. And then there’s that whole hiding the extent of your drinking from everyone (here’s an Inconvenient Truth™ for you: you’re not fooling anyone). To stop drinking is to face the horrible fact of having to be honest for the first time in…well…for however long you’ve been drinking alcoholically.

Here is the thing that I have learned time and time again in my recovery: DOING something (in this case, being honest) is never as bad as NOT doing it. Because while you’re avoiding the thing you’re afraid of, you’re prolonging the agony, and stacking up more consequences. A sober friend of mine put it to me this way: “When it gets too painful to continue, you WILL change.”

I wish I could sit across some sticky diner table from Koester and tell her that same thing.  But I’ll say this here:

Sobriety is not a death sentence, Megan. Taking away the drink will not take away the central parts of your identity. You don’t even know what those are anymore, because you’ve been drowning them. I’ve read this essay over and over again since last night. I so understand the terror you’re feeling at the very thought of not having that chemical escape hatch anymore. There’s a very palpable grief that happens when you know you have to stop doing this thing that’s NOT EVEN FUCKING WORKING ANYMORE.

You may very well not be ready to stop yet. I hope that changes soon.

It will be work, getting sober. It will absolutely fucking suck at first. But how much more work are you putting into drinking? Think about this.

I’m not the only person out there who read this and 100% related to it. We’re all over the place, and we’re ready to help you when you’re ready to be helped.

The Culture of Meanness.

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How many more times are we going to have to read about kids pushed to the point where they don’t see any other way out?

This little girl was ten years old.  TEN.

Each time I write about this, I get the same reactions (either in my email or my comments or in conversation).  Many of these reactions are positive.  However, I am also told that I should have gotten “over it” years ago.  I am told that what happened to me “wasn’t THAT bad.”  I am told that I shouldn’t express any compassion at all for the bullies.  I am told that I should stop writing about how there needs to be accountability for teachers, administrators, parents and any other ADULTS who see this sort of thing happening yet do nothing about it.  I am told that because I have decided NOT to have children, that I don’t have a say in how children are to be treated in the schools that I help support.  If you’re tired of reading about it, then just don’t read it.  I am tired of hearing that kids need to get a tougher skin, or that this is a “rite of passage” that’s just to be expected. You know what – NO. I’ve been there; the scars never fully go away.

It’s been almost 30 years, but I remember, with alarming clarity, what it was like to wake up every morning full of dread.  I remember what it was like to have my every move ridiculed.  I remember what it was like to look to the few kids that could have said something, only to have them turn away, because they didn’t want to become victims themselves.  I remember taking no joy or solace in any of the things that used to make me happy, because I had learned to stop expressing myself.

I am fortunate in that my parents listened to me.  They didn’t tell me to “try harder” to fit in.  They saw that their kid was in pain.  They pulled me out of a school where learning had become less important to me than did just getting through the day, where a handful of desperately unhappy (and therefore mean-spirited) girls dictated the climate of the classroom and where the adults who had a RESPONSIBILITY to ensure that we all felt safe refused, in my case, to intervene.  My parents got me professional help at a time when a) they could scarcely afford to do so, and b) “therapy” for a 12-year-old was not something that was looked upon favorably. I had resources, but even still – I didn’t come away from it totally unscathed.  Nobody who has been bullied does.

Get over it?  I’ll “get over it” when everybody stops acting like this is NORMAL and ACCEPTABLE.

People are expressing bewilderment that these children are even aware of suicide, that taking their own lives seems to be a viable option.  They think nothing could be that bad.  I understand these kids.  When you’re a child in the eye of a hurricane of incessant, daily, mental and verbal abuse, you have NO concept of it getting better in a year, or two years. You just want to stop hurting.  Fact:  kids are learning this kind of despair at an earlier and earlier age.

I really believe that we’re inundated with meanness right now.   We’re in a culture that rewards boorish, bullying behavior.  Just tune in to any one of those “Real Wives…” shows (or most any “reality show”) and you’ll see what I mean. The nastier you are, the more you backstab, the more airtime you’ll see, the more people will tune in. People don’t seem to make that connection. I’m not saying BAN that kind of programming, but see it as a part of the larger picture, because it all plays a part in how we interact with one another.

It’s everywhere, from what gets shown on television to the current state of “political discourse,” where anyone who disagrees with my opinion is an “idiot,” a “moron,” a “dumbass,” or a “Nazi,” and there’s no room for rational debate or compromise.  If we as adults can’t get out of the middle school cafeteria, mentally, how can we expect kids to act any different?  We can all watch those “It Gets Better” videos, we can all express sadness over the latest child suicide on our Facebook walls, but then we turn around and watch young men and women gleefully eviscerate one another on “Jersey Shore,” we openly mock those who have differing views on public policy, we call each other names because it’s easier than attempting to understand all sides of a story.  Perhaps I’m overreaching, but I don’t think so. These are angry times we live in, people are frightened and fed up, and children are soaking in this negativity.

We are the teachers, all of us.  All of us have a responsibility to teach – by example – empathy and compassion, whether we are parents, teachers, or have children in our lives that look up to us.

My heart breaks for this little girl and her family.  No child should have to be driven to that point, and no child should have to bully another child because it’s the only thing that makes him or her feel validated or secure.