My modus operandi is usually not to post when things are difficult, or when I wake up and put on my “asshole” shirt instead of another wardrobe choice. But. I am learning that it’s my choice to put on that shirt, and my choice to pick another one…on another day.

So, I had that shirt on the other day and picked up a drink. A big tall one. I was by myself (first mistake). I didn’t call my sponsor (until after I swallowed, second mistake). There are mistakes that happened days before the actual drink, too, I am learning that as well.

This morning I’ve changed my shirt. Again. And I am much happier with this choice — the asshole shirt is one that hurts. It hurts all of us.

I have also been fielding phone calls and texts and emails from the other fallen ones from treatment — those who slid, slipped, jumped off the wagon. We are an ornery and stubborn lot. I am praying for all of us — in the psych wards and jail cells and living rooms full of memories. If any of you make it here and are struggling, please keep up the fight. You are not an asshole. Just make better choices today.

The world needs you.

Augustana, Sweet and Low

In the past week, I have heard of or from friends from Ashley who have returned home and are already struggling again with their drug of choice (alcohol, pills, crack, what-have-you). I heard a particularly difficult tale tonight.

This disease has us by the balls. The balls. When I heard this most recent story, my heart just sank. I imagined my friend being wrestled to the ground by a hard-faced, sweaty demon — like a gazelle in the jaws of a lion. I would kick the crap out of it if I could, but I can’t. I can only keep my own devil at bay, so I can be there for friends, for my family, for myself. It’s around the corner, plotting, drooling…whispering. I can feel it. Before bed tonight, I’ll just pelt the f*cker with prayer and do the same again tomorrow. And the next day. That’s all we can do.

Hang in there, warriors.

Morphine, Cure for Pain

So I am clearly not posting every day. I’ve really been rocked down to the core recently, and while there is lots and lots to talk about — it’s exhausting. I so admire folks who get online and spew it out (most times quite eloquently as well), but I’ve learned that that’s not my deal really. Interesting, because in the past I couldn’t keep my mouth shut (both in person and over the ether) — but I guess I have never been talking about the right things, the important things.

I miss everybody! Doesn’t mean I won’t be back, but for instance, today, I didn’t move out of bed until 12:30pm and then it was only to take a shower and head to an arm chair. You can imagine the support it takes, from my husband mostly, to make this kind of wallowing possible with two children. It then feels profoundly selfish to say “I’m going to go spend a large amount of time on the computer.” Sigh. All are napping now, and I am waving…”He-ey.”

Come Thanksgiving, I will have lots to send upstairs in prayer. I am a lucky lady to recognize that, even when it makes me cry to think about trying to find the box with the Scotch tape in it.

I’ll post some pics soon — the kids are out-cute-ing each other every day.

Fergie, Big Girls Don’t Cry

Anybody still there?

I am.

And I’m okay, thanks for asking. I have heard from friends and strangers far and near and I appreciate every whisper. I do.

Lots of new, and sadly some repeats of old, old, old. Over the next weeks I plan to work through some things here, both at home and on Fannfare. November is National Blog Posting Every Day Month (or some such thing) so I am committing to try to say hello every day.

Solomother always posts about music being helpful to her in tough times. I quote today from the new duet album from Robert Plant and Alison Krauss which I simply can’t turn off. Well, sometimes I have to because I tear up and can’t see the screen or get my work done, etc. It’s excellent.

Also inspiring (Wow.) is this video. Good heavens. What do I have to complain about, again?

Certainly not readers and commenters on my blog. Let me know you’re out there!

I haven’t been reading blogs either. I need to check in with my favorites — you should too. Schmutzie, how are you? Hanging in there, Leah? Every day, I hope Kate continues to heal.

Please come back and see me.

Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, Please Read the Letter

Lots of news, people. I’ll try not to marathon-post, but that’s what happens when you’re in a fog for weeks (months?) — you “wake up” with lots to say.

First, a celebration! I rode the metro last week to an appointment. My son was 18 days old, and I was still trudging around with a separated pelvis. The pain was considerably better, but still not over. I shlepped onto the escalator and got behind someone that wasn’t moving on the left side. That’s bad metro form, folks. Standers on the right, walkers on the left. When I stepped to go around this fella, it hit me. THE PAIN IS GONE. I can’t say that was the moment the pain actually ended, but it was the moment I noticed it. I stepped, with confidence, without pain, and with a serious JOY around the guy and practically sprinted up the escalator stairs.

Ruby was 10 days old when the pain went away after my first pregnancy. So this time, I endured 8 extra days, and a much longer dependence on pain meds to get through the prenatal months.

What about those pain meds, you ask? I haven’t taken one since last Tuesday night. Wednesday morning, as I wrote about, I went to a “Detox Day” at the same clinic where I learned “All About Booze” a couple of years ago.

From what I understood going in, I was to take my last dose no later than midnight, as they had to get me into “lite withdrawal” in order to figure out how much of the helpful meds I would need to get me over the physical hump.

On the train ride over, Shaun and I didn’t talk much. I started to experience what I had been calling my “kick-ass” feelings (as in, I Want To Kick Your Ass, not “Hey man, this is kick-ass!”) at about 7:30AM when we walked to the station. I got a little tremor-y, and certainly very anxious. By the time we got to the office and met with the Doc, I had started to feel the “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT” feelings and I was pretty uncomfortable. I filled out some paperwork and talked to the doc for a bit, and then he gave me 2mg of subutex. He decided against suboxone because you can’t nurse on that. I had planned to “pump and dump” while on this particular medication, but with subutex, Shepherd would be getting only bupenorphine and not the other, more harmful (to babies) ingredient is so it’s safe. I had pumped enough to get through a day anyway, and Lord knows he (Shepherd) was “on” percoset for as long as I was, and he’s doing great.

I can say that the meds made me vewy sweepy, and continued to for the next several days. I guess the docs figure if you are in a stupor, you can’t think about the percosets. I remember Mary, in my group, talking about being addicted to pain meds, and falling asleep mid-bite at the dinner table, she was on so many of them. I did a little bit of that this last week. I would catch myself halfway through a typed paragraph or asleep over an almost-folded clean onesie — and realized that I would probably be off the helpful meds faster than anyone thought. Thankfully I haven’t taken any of anything today and I feel pretty good.

I miss the percoset(s), like one would miss a friend or a crutch. They make a body feel good, what can I say? They take pain away, and they add good feelings on top of that. BUT. So do newborns. And warm evenings on the glider out front. And good poetry. And funny, smart daughters who keep you on your toes.

And sleep. Which is what I plan to get, even if it’s in small doses, right now.

Oh, and PUPPIES.

Johnny Nash, I Can See Clearly Now

So, Mama goes BACK TO REHAB on Wednesday. I thought having a newborn wasn’t quite enough in terms of personal challenge, so I am going to turn it up a notch. Ahem.

Actually, I haven’t posted much since Shepherd’s birth for several reasons. First, there’s the Baby Bliss that you go through — punctuated by hours of just staring at his little eyes and hands and mouth and listening to him breathe, etc. Then there’s the precious few hours of sleep you get, punctuated by fleeting thoughts like “I wonder when I will ever get on the computer again,” and “What have I gotten myself into?”

For me, there’s also been the dread about getting off the pain medication I have been on for almost 8 months. Since I am no stranger to quitting things, I have done lots of reading about opiod withdrawal and its particular difficulties. The first day I tried to just stop on my own, I felt like kicking someone’s ass by noon. Uncomfortable. Irritable. Wildly erratic moodswings, from minute to minute. It was a scary couple of mornings when I thought “Hey, I don’t need help with this, no problem!”

I need help with this. I’ll be going back to my old rehab haunt to, this time, stop the opiods, and I will be on this stuff as an aid.

I’ll also be back in group with addicts of all kinds, and will probably see some people dealing with things much more grisly than a 20-25mg dependence that was actually prescribed by a physician. I hope this helps — as I am already choking back feelings of shame for being here in the first place. As the Mr. said though — I got Shepherd here safely, and now I need to take care of me. I knew that it wouldn’t be easy — I just wasn’t ready for it to be. So. Hard.

Instead of being all stoic and private about it, I’m actually going to take notes on how it’s all feeling on Wednesday and post them here. If prayer is something you do (or if you send positive thoughts into the universe over bagels and tea…whatever!), I would appreciate your sending one up for me. I’m trying to be stoic but I can’t help but recall withdrawal scenes like the ones in this movie and this movie and being scared out of my pants.

Maybe it would all be at least a little bit funn(ier) if I went into the clinic Wednesday morning without pants. You think?

Speaking of No Pants, how about a gratuitous cute kid pic? Always a good wrap-up, I say. Bottoms up!

Amy Winehouse, Rehab

No, I’m not talking about the girl at the Coldplay concert who’s had way too many sugary shots and can’t make it out of the stall for the encore.

I can always tell when my anxiety level is really high when I start imagining the head in the toilet. The Head in the Toilet. When I open the door to a bathroom in a trepidacious fashion, I know it’s time for a massage and some Zen haiku and some extra sleep. Anyone else experience this? I imagine that when I open the stall or the bathroom door, there will be a head in the toilet. A human head! All bloody and decapitated and oogey and stuff. It’s usually a woman’s head, because there’s more hair and it’s grosser. Always face up, for added OHSH*T effect. This is not a person I can identify, thankfully. Just a random head. In the toilet.

In these really brief fantasies I normally just shut the door calmly and go to another stall or bathroom. ??? Shut the door calmly after seeing a human head in the toilet. What-ever. Breeeeaaathe, Grasshopper.

I mention this because it happened today. Shaun’s and my stress level has skyrocketed since getting here. His business is growing and growing but along with that comes a lot of personal sacrifice, time together spent at our respective keyboards, AND we have a two year old (folks in the know really don’t lie when they talk about these two-year-olds being difficult, do they?). I can’t just walk out the door and find my friends at the park. I can’t take away Shaun’s stress because I don’t know how to code goobledygook into a computer to enable my clients to do stuff. I can’t always help Ruby acclimate to all these changes because most days I don’t speak SCREAM. Some days I think my head might pop off.

And land in the toilet.

Maybe someone else will find MY Head in the Toilet and the number of Heads I find will be lessened a little bit.

Strange, I know, but anxiety is strange. Physiological, aggravating and deceptively pervasive.

What are you lookin’ at?

P.S. Anyone remember a ghost story from your childhood involving a Head in the Toilet? Or a Parrot or something? A heartbeat? Am I losing my mind? No matter. I still blame this guy.

We’re heading for the cabin in the morning. Three whole big fat days with Shaun and Ruby and Moose and the woodstove and the big bed and the lake and the trees and the sky. Bliss.

We’re taking the first season of “24″ with us on DVD. Neither of us has seen it, but we’ve been assured that it’s “like crack.” Of all the people who have told us that, I am sure not one of them has ever even seen crack. In this circumstance, though, crack is used to describe a good thing. In my recent experience, I would hardly recommend something based on its similarity to crack cocaine. Can’t say I ever heard a wistful, happy story about it. Most of the stories followed a formula like: “I was at this party and there was this stuff and I smoked it and angels sang and all of a sudden my spouse was gone with the kids, I’m missing some crucial teeth, I’m broke, I can’t find my car, and my skin’s not so great.”

I heard “24″ was like crack and my first thought was, “Well, hell, I can’t watch that!” Crack has never been on my list of “things Amy has to quit,” but I am smart enough to know that’s probably because I’ve never done it.

So I’m glad there are only a few seasons of this show available on DVD, otherwise I would completely whack out on it somehow. First, I would upgrade our membership so that Netflix would send us 4 videos at a time instead of 3. Then, I’d sneak in another two. Hell, ten! Whatever they would allow. Charge it up! Shaun would come home from work to find Ruby in a six-pound diaper, covered with crusty yogurt and sleep boogers in her crib, slack-jawed and dazed, murmuring “Mooooommmmy” while I slumped pie-eyed in front of the television with huge noise-reducing headphones on. “Just one more episode,” I would plead, as he wrestled the remote from my cold, grizzled hand.

Wow. Sounds like a great weekend, doesn’t it? Maybe I should just go down the block in the morning and get some crack instead. Why? Because I don’t want to have to QUIT NETFLIX. I’m not quitting another thing. Not one.

Happy Easter, Bunnies.

I went to my therapy group last night. I see a woman named Grace (even her name is part of a Higher Plan, as I have indeed experienced grace since meeting her).  She has gotten me involved in a group where we talk about the minutiae of recovery and life every day, but also the enormity of spirituality and how we can use faith (in whatever you choose) to help us stumble down the road. If I refer to folks in the group, I’m going to call them all Mary. There aren’t any Marys in the group, and it’s men and women — but I suppose if anyone ever reads this blog I don’t want them to see things that identify them or call them out. Threaten their anonymity, as those program folks say.

So, last night, Mary talked about her completely absent and narcissistic mother who treated her like a doll instead of a human. She was potty trained and in undies by 10 months. Can you imagine the trauma gettting to that point?

Mary talked about being a gay man and how his early rejection of his sexuality ruined any sense of self that he had, since he had to pretend to be someone or something he wasn’t into adulthood.

Mary talked about having crippling migraines since age 6 and the years and years of folks either not believing her, overmedicating her, or dismissing her.

Mary talked about the death of her mother and the general falling apart of her son, and her white-knuckle struggle to hold it together.

I talked about making sausage out of my daughter.

As I left, I thought “Well, the humiliation of that is nothing that a handful of percocet and a bottle of wine won’t fix,” and therein lies the rub.

I guess I’ll go back next week. And just keep talking.

During a relaxed evening of “Dancing With the Stars” at Mom and Dad’s house (They love it!  Have you seen this show?), I brought up the Frontline presentation that I recently TiVoed about the crystal meth epidemic in America.  I mentioned the “time release” photos of people over the years, and the toll that crystal had taken on their appearance, their lives, their very souls.

I remember from rehab, the “numbers” for meth addicts were very bad — the recovery rate is abysmal for folks that are addicted to this particular drug.  It really just steals your life away, and makes you feel like there’s nothing but the drug worth living for.  I worry about my friends from the program who struggle with “Tina,” she’s a killer.

I sort of mumbled (as the dancing started again) that I was so thankful I had never liked meth.  Truth be told, I am much more of a downer fan than an upper one.  I like euphoria as much as the next person, but 18 hours of it?  I would pull my hair out.  I will take a nice mellow Percoset over cocaine any day.  Poppers?  Nope.  Red wine and lots of it?  Bring it on.  But that’s me.  Course, I ain’t takin’ a-none of those things anymore.  Just occasionally thinking of them with the heavy heart of a jilted lover — we only remember the good stuff.

Mind you, I am sitting with my PARENTS when I make this observation (never LIKED meth, not never DID meth), which leads to a very relaxed, “Oh, you’ve tried crystal meth?” from my father.  Thinking it will help somehow (like nail polish remover on a paper cut), I assure him and my mother (sitting nearby), “Oh, I was really young.”

Nice.  Really young.  Like when I was living in your house.  In high school even.  Probably one night when I was out in one of the vehicles that you owned.  In fact, I then got complete verbal diarrhea and decided to fumble around the story of the ill-fated New Years’ Eve with friends who talked for 9 hours straight while I just sort of held on for dear life and waited for the Scrambler to stop and let me off.  Felt a lot like that moment when I was slipping around on the ice of “these are my parents, not my friends!” even though they are two of my favorites.  Funny line you walk when you are in your thirties and really enjoy the ‘rents.  I still need to remember that I was their little Ruby Dooby Doo one day and that they probably still think of me that way.

After I finished my verbal shit-fest (having made absolutely no sense, progress or difference), I looked over at my mother.  Just like the photos on Frontline, she had sort of grayed out and aged about 40 years.

That Lisa Rinna (who my ex-roommate affectionately calls Baby Fish-Mouth) got robbed, huh?  ROBBED.