A Room of Mama's Own

Farewell for Now

2011-11-06T13:12:00.001-08:00

I started this blog over four years ago because I had a story I wanted to tell about those few years when my life changed: when my son was born, when I discovered my husband's addiction, when my son was diagnosed with autism, when my daughter was born. And I feel that most of what I wanted to tell is here. I'd like to edit it and rearrange it someday -- to put it in the form of a story one could read from start to finish -- but the bones of that story are here and done.

I haven't written much in the past year or so, and I haven't checked my messages in months. And this blog has started to feel more like a weight that I don't need to carry anymore. There's simply not much more to tell. Not here. I have stories about where I was before and where I am now, but those aren't MPJ's stories. They're My stories. The Me that includes, but is much more than, MPJ.

So, for the time being, I'll set this blog down and leave what's here for other Internet travelers to find as they may, like artifacts in the dust. Perhaps one of you will find something here you can use. If I ever do edit all this into something readable, I'll check back in. But I'd like to call this farewell for now. MPJ is going away to be subsumed into the greater Me again. I'm grateful our paths have crossed here, and I wish you all well in your journeys, wherever they take you.

You Are Not Your Brain (Review and Book Giveaway!)

2011-06-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

Well, I may not be writing much lately, but I certainly have been reading. The latest on my recovery reading list was You Are Not Your Brain by Jeffrey Schwartz and Rebecca Gladding, a decent self-help book with the sadly unrealized potential to be superb.

Have you ever had the perfect picture of something in your mind? Maybe it's a job. Or a spouse. Or a home. Or a pair of pants. Or this thing that will keep your nose warm in the winter. And you spend a long time looking for it. Maybe you even consider, idly, learning a new trade, like knitting or robotics, just so you can create it. At last. The perfect robot spouse handing me a custom knitted nose cozy!

Then maybe, having created this perfect picture, you've even seen something that had the potential to be IT. That perfect thing you've been looking for. And then you find yourself disappointed because it doesn't live up to its potential. Because it turns out your perfect nose cozy almost sort of keeps your nose warm, but isn't really well organized enough to do its job. This book is that nose cozy.

As I started reading, I had high hopes. The first chapter, in a form that I believe is legally mandated for all self-help books, cheerfully chirped that the solution to my problems would be easy and that this book could tell me how to do it. Really. It will. It's coming. Keep reading. No. Not here in the store. We've put all these words in so that you can't just skip to that easy answer and read it without paying for the book. Whew. Got you to buy it.*

Ok, now we can tell you the truth. Which is that you're actually going to have to work at this quite a lot. Oh, but we will tell you how. Eventually. Well, sort of. You'll be about 150 pages in before you ever get to the meat of our method and even then, it will all be so poorly organized and muddled that you'll have a hard time wading through the morass of words to tease out the important bits. But it's in there!

Yes, I was quite excited by the idea of this book and so almost equally disappointed that poor organization got in the way of its excellent message. What I enjoyed most was that this was a book that avoided the kinds of labels that keep many spouses of addicts (and addicts themselves) from getting help with their pain. I've seen so many people stew in the pain of intrusive thoughts of an addict's acting out. Or get so angry they destroy property or hurt others or themselves. Or rage at their spouse in front of the kids. Or overeat or drink alcohol or overspend to deal with the stress. And not get help. Because they don't consider themselves alcoholics or overeaters or codependent and they don't have PTSD and they're not depressed and they really, really don't need a God that doesn't exist, so forget 12 Step thankyouverymuch. They're just hurt and frustrated by all this stuff other people keep doing.

Well, here it is. Here's a book that gives you all the great tools we learn in 12 Step. Tools like mindfulness and acceptance and taking care of yourself and not shoulding all over. Here's a book that can make a great supplement and accompaniment to 12 Step or a great introduction to some of the tools we learn in program. And it does it all with a basis in nice, safe brain science with no one forcing that pesky God thing on you. Here is a book that admits there are no quick fixes but lays out the practical steps and hard work it takes to work on healing.

Or rather here it could be.

Because while You Are Not Your Brain contains a lot of fantastic and helpful information, it is bogged down in organizational problems. Terms that are used repeatedly from the earliest pages of the book sometimes aren't fully defined until 200 pages later. Most of the first 140 pages are spent telling us (out of order) what we're going to read later in the book. I found myself wishing I had a dollar for every time the authors wrote things like "you will learn more in chapters 3 and 4" or "we will teach you more in Part II, but for now..." or "we will discuss this in chapter 11." Or better yet, wishing I had access to the text and could edit the book myself. (Note to the authors and editors: In a properly organized book, the information should build in a logical way. I'll be happy to help you with your next book.)

And while the authors tried to use simple language, they ended up creating a whole new set of jargon like "Self-Referencing Center" and "Refocus with Progressive Mindfulness." My almost-favorite was what they called the "Uh Oh Center" of the brain, because it was simple and descriptive, but after they mentioned that a colleague referred to it as the "Oh Shit Center" instead, "Uh Oh Center" seemed a pale second best.

Still, while You Are Not Your Brain may not be the perfect recovery book for which I've been longing; it's a good enough book. Even with its flaws, the excellent information, exercises and practical advice it presents make it worth a read and even a second read. Just go heavy on the skimming the first time around.

Leave a comment on this post between now and Sunday, June 26, 2011 for a chance to win a free copy. The winner will be announced on Monday, June 27, 2011.

* Full disclosure: I didn't really buy it. The publisher sent me a free copy of You Are Not Your Brain and promised me a free copy to give away, in exchange for posting this review. However, the contents of this post are solely my own. And also I have had that experience skimming self-help books in the bookstore. I'm not making that up.

Codependent No More Workbook (Review and Book Giveaway!)

2011-05-02T11:33:00.000-07:00

It's nearly impossible to be the friend or family member of an addict and not have heard Melody Beattie's name. Her books on codependency are widely read and recommended. My own 12 Step home group regularly uses Codependent No More, Codependents' Guide to the Twelve Steps and The Language of Letting Go as part of our meetings and Step work.

Beattie's latest book, Codependent No More Workbook, is something of a companion piece to Codependent No More, intended to move the description and understanding of codependency into the action of recovery. In the first chapter, Beattie compares the work of recovery to mountain climbing, and these are no idle words. Many of the activities in the Workbook are intense and demanding and require a firm commitment to doing the hard work of recovery.

Still, while the overall quality of the activities didn't disappoint me, I was surprised by how few there were. Beattie seemed to have chosen to focus on a few intense activities interspersed with what sometimes seemed like an unnecessary amount of expository text, especially given that each chapter starts with a suggestion for readings from Codependent No More. In particular, the first chapter contains quite a bit of background information on codependency, which seemed unlikely to either convince any skeptics or enhance recovery work. Despite these flaws, the activities and text are helpful and inspirational enough overall that I consider the Workbook a useful addition to my recovery library.

The Workbook is based strongly on the 12 Step model, so in working through the exercises, you will be working the Steps. As such, it will not be a method that everyone is comfortable with or that will work for everyone.

I believe this book will work best for people who:

are already part of a 12 Step fellowship.
already accept both the concept of codependency generally as well as their own codependency OR feel they will benefit from working a program like this and can do so without feeling threatened by the label.
conceive of their Higher Power as a male deity with the power to directly intervene in their lives OR are comfortable enough with their own different conception of a Higher Power to be able to take what they can use and leave the rest.
are ready to make a commitment to devote the time and energy necessary to work through the activities in the book over the course of many months.

The Workbook also pays special attention to "double winners," people who struggle with both addiction (particularly to drugs and alcohol) and codependency.

This book may not work well for people who:

are not part of a 12 Step program, particularly those who have negative or hostile feelings about 12 Step.
do not accept codependency, especially if they feel negative toward or threatened by the concept, either in general or for themselves.
have negative, hostile or unresolved feelings about an all powerful male deity.
aren't ready to commit to the necessary work.

Having read the book through over the course of the past few weeks, I've come away with a renewed commitment and inspiration to continue my own daily work on the 12 Steps, and I'm eager to try some of the more involved activities in the book.

And good news! I have an extra copy of the book to give away, so you can get an opportunity to work through it too.

Leave a comment on this post between now and Sunday, May 8, 2011 for a chance to win a free copy. The winner will be announced on Monday, May 9, 2011.

* In the interest of full disclosure: I did receive a free copy of Melody Beattie's Codependent No More Workbook, as well as a free copy to give away, in exchange for posting this review. However, the contents of this post are solely my own.

Book Giveaway Next Week!

2011-04-27T17:39:00.000-07:00

A quick post to let you all know that next week (Monday, May 2) I'll be posting a review of Melody Beattie's latest book Codependent No More Workbook, and I will have one free copy of the book to give away to some lucky reader, so be sure to stop by.

Stepping Off the Bus to Crazytown

2011-03-21T17:23:00.000-07:00

Harry: Do you ever think about death?
Sally: Yes.
Harry: Sure you do, a fleeting thought that jumps in and out of the transom of your mind. I spend hours, I spend days...
Sally: And you think that makes you a better person?
Harry: Look, when the shit comes down, I'm gonna be prepared and you're not. That's all I'm saying.
Sally: And in the meantime you're going to ruin your whole life waiting for it.

~When Harry Met Sally

The caller ID read "Linton, Isabella." I didn't recognize the name or number, but I picked up anyway.

It was my husband calling from an old fashioned land line in the administrative building of the retreat center where he was spending the weekend with other members of his SAA group. His annual three days and two nights of 12 Step fellowship in a cluster of cabins tucked in the woods, out of range of cell phone towers.

Like any good wife of a recovering sex addict, I thanked him for letting me know he arrived safely, told him to have a wonderful weekend, hung up the phone and promptly googled "Isabella Linton."

Because, hey, he might call from the home phone of a sexual liaison rather than his cell. It doesn't make a lot of sense. But that's not important. What's important is that you never know.

Turns out Isabella Linton is the manager of the retreat center. Oh.

See. My husband is where he says he is, doing what he says he's doing.

Or not. Maybe there is no SAA retreat. Maybe for seven years he's been pretending to go on these retreats when he really has a romantic weekend away with someone else at this retreat center.

Or maybe the woman he's meeting is Isabella Linton, retreat center manager. And he met her at the retreat center. Where they get together every year. During a big SAA retreat? Right under the nose of his sponsor? Devious!

Or there is no conspiracy, no big lie. He really is where he says he is, doing what he's saying he's doing.

But all of that -- and the how-do-I-know that follows -- leads only one place. Can you hear it?

"Now boarding! Bus to Crazytown. Population: Me. Attractions include an obsessive search for 'truth' to the exclusion of all other activities."

But I'm not getting on that bus. True, I may still go to the station and hang out there googling Isabella Linton. But I'm not getting on that bus today.

Because here's my truth. I can't know what my husband is doing every moment of every day when he's out of my sight, even if I ruin my whole life trying. But I can choose to focus on what I do know and what I can see, which is that my life is good and I'm happy to be where I am right now. So I closed my computer, and asked my daughter if she wanted to help me make cupcakes. And they were delicious.

My New Boyfriend

2010-11-06T18:46:00.000-07:00

Yep, that's right. My husband ought to be quaking with fear, because there's a new love in my life, one who had me at "lonely and troubled childhood."

And the only thing that stands in the way of our enduring love is the fact that I'm not a cartoon character. (Oh, and he already has a thing for that cartoon reporter, Roxanne. Whatever. I'm sure the animators can just draw me as her. I mean, let's not get picky about it. I'm sure we can work through those little details in the name of true love.)

Yes, that's right. My new imaginary boyfriend is Megamind, the blue space alien evil genius with the soulful green eyes voiced by Will Ferrell (for whom I totally would not leave my husband). But to tell you why he's so hot, I'm going to have to include some (moderate) spoilers, so if you're the kind of person who likes to approach movies as a blank slate, go watch it now.

So, did you see it? Did you see how Megamind was alone in his dark prison cell as a child, working on his plans for a popcorn maker to get the other kids to like him? And how it didn't work? And how he sat alone at a table at school with the fish that was his only friend? Did you see how he said the only thing he was good at was being bad? And how guys like him never get the girl?

Did you see how everyone abandoned him his whole life long? Did you see how lonely he was? And how misunderstood? And how he pretended to be someone else? And he lied? (Favorite line in the movie: in response to the question of what he will do when the girl he loves finds out about his deception, he says, "She'll never find out! That's the whole point of lying!" If you were in the theater with me, I apologize for the fact that you couldn't hear the next five lines of dialogue over my howling laughter.)

That all is so. freaking. hot.

That's like a cartoon portrayal of my dream man, which I recognized, because I was sitting next to the man I've adored for twenty years now, who was lonely and never felt good enough to get the girl and pretended to be someone else and lied. And it ate my heart out that no one would love this poor space alien right. I was cheering so hard for him to get the girl, from the deepest reaches of my codie soul, I was yelling at Roxanne to recognize the goodness and fragility beneath his evil exterior. For crying out loud, couldn't she see it? She could save him, and he would love her forever. Sigh. So goes the fantasy.

Ok, I'm off to hang a picture of Megamind up by my bed, and wonder what our children will look like. Only not really, because please, I'm like 40-something, I've had my tubes tied and which makes me too old for the sad geekiness of cartoon romance. (You know, if I were 30, maybe...) And besides, who needs Megamind? I've already played out that fantasy with his real life counterpart, and I'm happy to hold hands with him as I walk out of the theater, smiling.

Site Changes (and a Little Feed Glitch)

2010-10-26T14:29:00.000-07:00

After far too much frustrating time fighting the complexities of WordPress, I am moving back to the much simpler, more user-friendly Blogspot platform. This transition should all work seamlessly -- no updates to any subscriptions or bookmarks will be required.

However, if you subscribe, you may have noticed a glitch that caused some old posts to be resent. That just means you are safely on the new feed now, and all is well. There is also some chance the site content will be temporarily unavailable at some point in the next week or so. If so, don't panic! I'll be back soon.

I Made a Video!

2010-10-21T03:17:00.001-07:00

Have you played around with this site xtranormal.com? You can make animated videos of your writing, and it is a seriously fun way to spend more time that you have available to you. I decided to turn my recent blog post about bad parenting into a movie. Now, instead of reading about how you are a bad parent for handing your child an iPhone, you can watch it (maybe on an iPhone):

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7416181/

Interview on Sex Addiction

2010-10-20T02:58:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
cbcastro on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

Occasionally, folks ask to interview me about my experiences in a relationship with a sex addict. And (provided that I'm able to maintain my anonymity and that I'm fairly certain the content won't be used inappropriately) I am always happy to oblige. The more information there is about sex addiction and recovery (both for addicts and those who love them), the better. As we say in my 12 Step meetings: "This disease thrives in darkness. We can bring it out into the light."

In that spirit, here is an interview I did recently for AllTreatment.com: The Wife of a Recovering Sex Addict Tells Her Story. Enjoy!

Why You Are a Bad Parent (Mother) and How to Fix It

2010-10-18T04:15:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
katrinket on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

So, have your read the recent New York Times article on toddlers and iPhones? It's shocking and alarming! More and more parents (oh, ok, moms -- only one nameless man is mentioned in the entire article and we are not told how he handles his toddler's request) are giving their badly behaved children iPhones in order to shut them up! It's the 21st century version of plopping them in front of a TV! Only worse! Because it's interactive and kids like it better! It's damaging their developing brains! And deluded parents moms (colluding with evil marketers) pacify themselves by imagining some of this is educational for their children!

So, having kept on top of articles criticizing mothers for not being perfect and blaming them for everything that's wrong in the world the latest in parenting news, let me parse this for you:

Letting your child ever, for one second of her life, touch an iPhone = bad parenting. You let your child touch an iPhone? Congratulations! You just caused brain damage. Your child will grow up to be a friendless alcoholic who is a drain on society. The collapse of Western civilization is entirely your fault, Mom.

Having a child who is unable to remain motionless and quiet at all times in public without an iPhone = bad parenting. See above re: friendless alcoholic and it all being your fault.

Wanting 10 minutes of quiet time, free from your child's demands = bad parenting. You must not really love your child if you are not constantly enraptured by them. Plus you clearly don't know how to set limits. Oh, and you're taking the easy way out. There's so much wrong with you, I don't even know what to say, other than: friendless alcoholic!

Focusing your constant, developmentally enriching attention on your child for every single waking instant of your damn life, so that your child behaves to everyone's satisfaction without a minute of boredom and without ever touching an iPhone = bad parenting. Actually, the worst parenting. Helicopter parenting! (I wish I had a really spooky font for "helicopter," but that's okay, you can just read it in a spooky voice to yourself.) Your child will not only end up a friendless alcoholic, but he will have been so coddled he will be unable to dress himself, leading to an arrest for indecent exposure. Just you wait!

"Free-ranging" your child so that they learn to entertain themselves without an iPhone = bad parenting. They will just steal someone else's iPhone while you are irresponsibly shirking your duty to watch them every moment (but the right way, you know, not by being a "helicopter parent"). Still, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that your child will not become a friendless alcoholic. But that's only because she won't live long enough. She will be abducted and murdered by a stranger or will drown in a puddle or will fall and break her neck. And you will deserve it. Don't expect any sympathy. You got what was coming to you, bad Mom. And we are all better off without the worthless criminal your child was sure to become.

Using your own best judgment about the use of various tools and techniques in moderation = bad parenting. Stop being lazy and making excuses for giving your child brain damage by handing him that iPhone for a 15 minute car ride! There is a right and a wrong way to do things. And anything less than 100% perfectly right all the time will lead to friendless alcoholic, drain on society, end of Western civilization, etc.

So, how can you be a good parent? It seems hopeless. Fortunately, there are two options:

Provide your child with wooden toys. (And make sure there's no lead paint on those! Oh, and don't be too uptight about it, because nobody likes a killjoy). Also, provide developmentally appropriate books. (And do start with picture books. After all, you did read that article about how bad parents moms are pushing their kids into chapter books too fast, right?) Nothing with batteries, nothing with screens, no BPA plastic, no potentially toxic anything, no choking or strangulation hazards. But do that all effortlessly, because if you suck all the fun out of childhood, you are also a bad mom.

Next, focus your complete, perfect, developmentally enriching attention on your children for some unknown ideal number of hours each day. Too much or too little and we are right back to friendless alcoholic. If you don't already know that perfect number, I'm not going to tell you; all good parents already know it. If you don't, you were clearly raised by wolves yourself, so there's no point. You're beyond hope, and so is your child. You'll have to skip to Option 2.

Now (and this is the most important part) have a child who behaves perfectly at all times and entertains herself on cue in quiet and educationally appropriate ways whenever your perfect, developmentally enriching attention is not on her, and who voluntarily (but politely and without seeming uptight or brainwashed) refuses offers of other kids' inappropriate toys and effortlessly redirects them into fun, educational, developmentally appropriate play. If that sounds tough, it is. Fortunately, there's an easier way. Which brings me to...

Be a man. When fathers hand their kids iPhones, it's cute, because those silly men don't know any better. And besides, he's trying to train Junior to be an engineer! When fathers refuse iPhones and the kids throw a tantrum in public, Dad is being a tough disciplinarian who is raising an upstanding citizen.

Be a man and no one will mention you by name in a New York Times article full of dataless speculation about things that might, maybe, in some unknown quantities be harmful to children (or not, but of course they are, we all know that). No one will criticize your sad inability to breastfeed. No one will picture your fatherly face when they read about a 12-year-old who can't operate an ice tray because his "helicopter parents" (read: mom) spent too much time with him, gave him too much attention or was too helpful. No one will imply that you are heartlessly shirking your duties or that you don't love your child adequately if you drop him off at daycare.

Now, I know what those of you born with vaginas are thinking, "But I can't just become a man!" To which I say, sure you can. Halloween is just around the corner and I bet all those fake beards will be on sale soon. And let's face it, even sex reassignment surgery and a lifetime of testosterone supplements would be a hell of a lot easier than Option 1. Or you could, oh I don't know, use your own best judgment and trust other people to do the same. Oh, right! That would be bad parenting.

Jealous Mind

2010-10-12T13:47:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
Kikishua on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

In my bedroom, buried in a pile of papers is a questionnaire labeled "The Marriage Expectation Inventory." Each question is answered in neatly printed block letters in purple ink. After nearly a decade and a half, the ink has started to bleed through the pages and on the reverse of each page are the blurry ghosts of letters in a screaming fuchsia.

On the line beneath "What is the greatest weakness you bring to your marriage?" I've printed, "Jealousy/insecurity," which is an interesting answer given what happened in our marriage in the years after I completed the questionnaire. At the time, I wouldn't allow myself to admit that I wasn't comfortable with my husband's behavior toward women, so I thought there must be something wrong with me for being uncomfortable about it. I wasn't worried that he might find himself involved with another woman because, oh, say, he was looking to get involved with other women, but because I was lacking in the confidence necessary to fully believe the fantasy that he wouldn't.

This weekend we were out at the park with our kids when a woman approached us and complimented Janie's curls, a compliment we hear, oh, roughly, once a minute every time Janie walks anywhere outside our home. Janie whispered "thank you" while looking at her toes and then ran off to play. Mark and I sat down on a bench and a few minutes later the same woman came over, sat down next to Mark and began chatting.

The odd thing was, unlike most moms at the park, she didn't chat about her children. She chatted briefly about her own physical attractiveness and her availability for a relationship. Then, a few awkward moments later, she left.

A decade ago, Mark would have had her number at the end of the conversation or would have given her his. She would be one of his new friends, someone to keep in flirtatious contact with and maybe have an affair with. And I would have gone home furiously angry at him and hating her, but most of all mad at myself for being so insecure that I couldn't trust the husband who clearly loved me. I would have tried to keep all that in until it exploded out at Mark. We would have fought about it. He would have assured me he loved me and it was just my jealous mind playing tricks on me.

This time around, I thought of that questionnaire and laughed. That woman's conversation crossed some invisible line of intimacy and it made both Mark and me uncomfortable. I can identify the exact words and the exact moments that brought up those feelings of discomfort for me. I can talk to my husband about it without contemptuously berating him for any part in it. And I can recognize that it's not helpful to dismiss my feelings as the delusions of an insanely jealous or insecure mind. But then again, it never was.

I'm Late, I'm Late, I'm Late

2010-09-30T04:11:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
aesop on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

The school secretary looked at me over the top of her glasses. The look clearly said, "Oh. It's you again. The mom who can't be bothered to get her child to school on time." She knows my daughter and me, which is not a good thing in a large school like my daughter's where I am definitely not on the PTA. She knows me because, I'm the Chevy Chase of moms. Seriously, if I were a mom in a movie, Chevy Chase would play the role of me.

I used to have a different relationship with school secretaries, and a part of me wishes I were wearing a big flashing shirt with a picture of my college diploma on it. It would be my way of saying, "I know! I'm disorganized! But I graduated at the top of my class and went to a really fancy college. I'm super good at all school stuff, except the getting here on time part. Seriously, give me an essay to write on the use of theatrical metaphors in Shakespeare and I am so on it. I can even get an A+ in gym and wood shop, as long as a significant portion of the grade is based on written tests about theory. You would like me if I were a student here. You'd never have a single disciplinary problem with me, and I'd skew the standardized test scores up to make the school look fancy. It's just as a parent that I seem kind of sucky."

School secretaries used to like me, even though they had to write late slips. And I'm an obsessive record keeper, so I know the had to write lots of them. Over the years, my diary entries read something like this:

"Missed the bus. Late for school."
"Missed the bus again."
"Late for school again."
"Walked to school because I missed the bus."
"Got to school on time! But forgot to brush my hair and put on makeup. :("

Still the school secretaries would smile and ask if I wanted to pick up my trophy/certificate/medal/savings bond/scholarship check while I was there. It was like being a student athlete, only without the being-good-at-sports part.

And today, I had really genuinely meant to be on time. It was school picture day, so I knew I was going to have to be on my game. My daughter wanted to wear her fanciest dress and have me do her hair in its fanciest style: pigtails. So, she was up on time, eating breakfast and I was focused. No TV this morning. No playing Beatles Rock Band. I combed her hair into two neat pigtails and we put on her favorite dress. Then she grabbed her baseball cap.

"I think that's going to mess up your hair for the picture," I said.

"No it's not," she said, and placed it lightly on top of her head, so that if she leaned forward, it would fall off. She removed it and said, "See?"

"Oh no!" I cried in mock horror. "The hair! It's crazy!" And I laughed, but Janie covered her face with her hat and started to cry, "No, it's not!"

"No, it's not. I was teasing."

"That's not nice."

"I'm sorry. I love you. And it doesn't matter how your hair looks anyway. You're awesome. Let's go."

So Janie mashed the hat down on her head for real, smooshing down the carefully placed pigtails and walked out the door, head down, still mad at me. As we approached the school, I checked her backpack and... Oh crap. There was the picture order form (not filled out) and the envelope for the money (with no money).

"Uh oh. I didn't fill this out or pay the money," I said.

"Oh no!" said Janie, "But Mama, I got dressed in my fancy dress and everything, and now I won't get my school picture taken!" Her lip started to do that quivery thing. Crap. The form says right there on it "No late payments will be accepted."

"It's ok. I can do it right now." So I find a bench outside the school and start pulling out the entire contents of my purse. I definitely have some kind of writing implement in here somewhere. Mini-golf pencil! Score! I fill out the form. Now for the payment. I'll just whip out my checkbook and... Out of checks. Damn. Ok, I'll dig around in my purse for money. Is there a voice coming out of my cell phone? Crap. I accidentally called someone. Ok. Deal with that later. I definitely don't have enough bills, but I do have a lot of change. In fact, five dollars of it: nickels and dimes and quarters, which I stuff into the envelope, which now weighs twenty pounds. This is when my disorganization pays. Literally.

Janie is wide-eyed with delight at watching me count so much change, and clearly relieved that I have saved the day by having barely enough money in my purse for the minimum picture package. "We're going to be late," I said, "I'm really sorry."

"It's ok, Mama," said Janie, and together we walked into the office.

"Reason for lateness?" the school secretary said.

"It's totally my fault," I said. Janie looked up at me and smiled.

"Mom late," she wrote on the late slip, frowning. She handed the slip to Janie, and I watched her bounce off to her classroom, her hat still smashed down over her pigtails, thinking it's not bad to be the Chevy Chase of moms, but I still do want that flashing shirt, just a little.

Autism as an Invisible Disability

2010-09-29T04:53:00.000-07:00

As promised, I am over guest posting today on Amy Julia Becker's blog Thin Places about autism, invisible disability and acceptance. And here's your teaser...

My son Austen* looks like most nine-year-olds, except perhaps a bit taller, with long legs that carry him swiftly across the ground as he races you to the car or the door of the house or the mailbox. He has curly brown hair, golden brown skin and painfully long, lush eyelashes ringing his deep brown eyes. When he flashes you a big grin -- as he does when he's thinking about something funny that happened at school or his latest high score on a favorite video game -- you see those new adult teeth that still look a bit too big for his mouth, like a young colt's. His fingernails have a tendency to be dirty, for the same reason the palms of his hands are calloused: from swinging on monkey bars and climbing trees.

What you won't notice immediately is his disability...

Read the rest at: http://blog.beliefnet.com/thinplaces/2010/09/perfectly-human-invisible-by-mary-p-jones.html

What's Going On

2010-09-21T02:39:00.000-07:00

See. I tricked you! You thought I was back and writing, but then I took another week off. Actually, I didn't really take a week off of writing. I have been writing and some other things besides, which I'd love to share in some way that's witty and literary and dazzling. But all I've got in me are bullet points, which are none of the above.

This, by the way, is the point at which blogging experts say you shouldn't blog. You should always put your best stuff out there and dazzle the Internet multitudes. But I say... Um... Ah, whatever. I don't have it in me to come up with a dazzling response to that either. So, here, my friends, are your bullet points:

I was working on a guest post for a blog on disability and spirituality that I think many of you will love: Amy Julia Becker's Thin Places. The post won't be up for a week or two. I'll post a link when it is, but do feel free to poke around and get to know Amy Julia in the meantime.

I've been working on my 1st Step, in depth this time, which has consisted of writing up a history of my life and relationships. I've used a lot of blog material, and it's about (gulp) 50 pages long, which is awful and fabulous. Awful, because I need to edit it down to about 8 in order to present it to my 12 Step group and fabulous because I started this blog with the idea of writing a memoir about my marriage and I've found I have a really solid foundation for that. When I read it to my cosponsor, she and I both cried.

I have been celebrating! My husband and I have 7 years in recovery, and since many of you know that discovery and recovery happened when I was very pregnant with my daughter, you can probably guess that we've been preparing to celebrate the anniversary of Janie's birth. We've also been celebrating a sobriety anniversary for my husband, who has 4 years since his last major slip. Yay!

Damn!

2010-09-10T05:41:00.000-07:00

When writing haiku,
sometimes, the perfect phrase has
too many sylla...

Rules Kids Won't Learn in School

2010-09-07T14:00:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
TheeErin on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

A few of my real life friends have forwarded around "rules that kids don't learn in school" from the book Dumbing Down Our Kids: Why American Children Feel Good About Themselves But Can't Read, Write, or Add by Charles J. Sykes (not Bill Gates, as a few messages stated). Since Mr. Sykes' rules weren't consistent with what I believe, or want to teach my children, I thought it would be fun to rewrite them for myself. So, here is my version (with his original at the bottom for reference). And since neither Mr. Sykes nor I may fit with exactly what you believe, feel free to come up with your own and share it too.

Rule 1: Life can be unfair, but in the face of it, you can still cultivate a spirit of generosity, kindness and understanding.

(Also a sense of humor. Because you may find that when people say things like "Life is not fair - get used to it!" it may be because things are unequal in their favor, they like it that way and they're kind of being dicks about it. But you know you don't have to be a dick too. You can think of this and secretly smile when people rant at you. It will make it seem like there is justice in the world again, even if you are actually being a little dickish yourself.)

Rule 2: Every human being has dignity and is worthy of love, respect and understanding, whether they are living in a cardboard box or a mansion in Beverly Hills. Treat yourself, and everyone else with respect and kindness, and you will deserve infinite esteem regardless of what else you accomplish.

Rule 3: Find a way to enjoy and be proud of the work you do each day. Thinking you will only be fulfilled when you reach a certain salary or title or level of accomplishment leads to a disappointing and empty life.

Rule 4: If you have a "tough" teacher or a "tough" boss, especially one who prides themselves on it, they're probably not nearly as good at their jobs as they think they are. My best teachers and bosses haven't imposed difficulties and demanded I worked until I burnt out, but met me where I was and worked with me to help me learn to tackle new challenges and reach my potential. Stick with the ones who do that for you.

Rule 5: See Rule 3, with the caveat that, while working toward being a bazillionaire won't make you any happier, it's reasonable to expect that earning a living wage and health benefits will.

Rule 6: You are, for good and for ill, the product of everything around you and everything that came before you. For the positive contributions (from DNA to supportive people to wherever you happen to live), pay humble debts of gratitude each day. For the negatives, be forgiving of yourself and others, and trust that every imperfect one of us is doing the best we can living in imperfect circumstances. Learn from mistakes when you can, but also learn that sometimes things just go wrong, and there's nothing anyone could have done about it.

Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents may well have been just boring as they are now. (I know I've always been this boring.) Or not. It's not really important. For now, forget your parents, and go ahead and save the rain forest from the parasites of their generation; someone needs to do it. And it's not like the world is going to benefit from your closet being cleaner.

Rule 8: There are no winners and losers in life. The person who dies with the most toys does not win, nor does the person with the highest grades. And if you don't learn something on the first go around, don't feel bad, because believe me, life will keep smacking you in the face with the same lesson over and over until you do learn it.

Rule 9: Many employers will happily rip your heart out and eat it if it helps the bottom line. This is why you need to work on your boundaries. Also, try to formulate a plan that involves driving profits up by having employers serve you free pie instead.

Rule 10: Learn to tell fiction from reality, but also never forget that fiction can be a window on a larger truth.

Rule 11: Be nice to nerds, because, well... See Rule 2.

Charles Sykes' original rules:

Rule 1: Life is not fair - get used to it!

Rule 2: The world doesn't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3: You will NOT make $60,000 a year right out of high school. You won't be a vice-president with a car phone until you earn both.

Rule 4: If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss.

Rule 5: Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your Grandparents had a different word for burger flipping: they called it opportunity.

Rule 6: If you mess up, it's not your parents' fault, so don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you thought you were. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent's generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.

Rule 8: Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life HAS NOT. In some schools, they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as MANY TIMES as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.

Rule 9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you FIND YOURSELF. Do that on your own time.

Rule 10: Television is NOT real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.

Rule 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one.

In Which I Admit I'm a Little Crazy

2010-09-07T03:52:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
anyjazz65 on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

My son wanted to go to bed early the other night. Now you wouldn't think that this would be cause for alarm. There are lots of good reasons for him to be tired. Summer break is over. Fourth grade has started. The kids are no longer on a lazy summer schedule. Add the fact that cold germs are flying around, and maybe you have a kid whose immune system is fighting off some annoying but relatively harmless virus. So he's tired. And he asks to go to bed early. Think nothing of it.

Unless you're me, that is. This is An Event Out Of The Ordinary! And whether the Event Out Of The Ordinary is Mark coming home late or Austen going to bed early, these things are Bad (yes, with a capital B). In this case, my money was on leukemia. Either that or some horrible irreversible disease caused by the fact that Austen's diet is so limited.

Ordinarily, I don't share these things with anyone outside of my husband, because the inevitable response (even, to a more limited extent, from Mark, who at least keeps loving me anyway) is: you're crazy, you're so overreacting, he's just tired, and I'm somewhat disturbed by your craziness, so I'll just go stand over here now. Or... If you're so worried about it, you should work harder and do better. Clearly his diet is limited because of your awful laziness and lack of discipline and willpower. People like you are ruining America and are personally responsible for my unhappiness. I demand that you fix this, and if you just [insert long list of advice that hasn't worked yet and/or recommendation to focus solely on this goal to the exclusion of the needs of all other family members], all the world's problems would be solved.

So, it's tiresome, this admitting of strange, secret, niggling fears. It feels like walking a mile carrying a hundred pound weight (which, by the way, wouldn't be so hard if you stayed in better shape, MPJ, so stop complaining). In fact, it's so very tiresome, that I've spent my entire life not telling people (aside from a trusted few) that if my son asks to go to bed early, I secretly think he might have leukemia. And that I might even go so far as to stand next to his bed, biting my bottom lip, my hand hovering over his sleeping head to see if I feel a fever.

Austen is fine, of course. After a few nights of early bedtime, he has been his usual cheerful, energetic self. And I'm fairly certain (well, ok, maybe I will be in a few days) that he doesn't have any life threatening disease at the moment. But I'm also fairly certain that the next time he says his stomach is upset, I'll be biting my lip and furrowing my brows, thinking I may have been wrong last time, but this time...

The one thing I feel I can never be certain of, until the very moment I hit publish, is whether or not sending my whispers of imperfection out along distant electronic tendrils of this universe -- and the relief and recognition and connection and not-aloneness it might bring somewhere -- is worth walking a mile with that damn weight. This summer, it wasn't. But, today, it's back to school time, and unlike my kids, I feel like I have all the energy in the world.

Stating the Obvious

2010-08-01T05:41:00.000-07:00

I just don't feel much like writing this summer. (That's The Obvious. Well, unless you thought I was dead or trapped under something heavy. I'm not.) Last month, in a fit of inspiration, I thought I'd recycle some old content, but I don't even want to look at the computer long enough to do that. In fact, I don't even want to look at it long enough to find the link to where I said I'd do it. It was, like, the last post. You can scroll down. I'm just too summer lazy to do it myself.

So, I'll let you poke back through the archives yourself if you're interested. There's lots there. After all, I've spent the past few years writing here nearly every day. And it's probably because of that I'm finding that I need to take a break away from the screen. I'll be back, renewed and refreshed, in September when the kids are back in school.

Hope you all are having a great summer. I know I am.

Stillness

2010-07-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
Baloulumix on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

I was cleaning up outside earlier today, an activity I'm finding much more soothing than cleaning up inside the house, because it turns out that Nature is less destructive than my family, so I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor a little longer before entropy takes over and sends everything back into visually displeasing chaos. At some point, my pesky back pain kicking in, I sat down, and thought, "Wow, this is wonderful! I'm sitting here and it's so peaceful," which was followed immediately by, "But if I'm going to sit here, I should be writing something or reading something or doing something."

But it struck me that the guilt was misplaced. The stillness was a necessary part of writing and a form of reading and an aid in doing. So, I stayed there for a while and did a little of the work of letting go, just by the slightest amount, of the to do list, which seems to be harder for me than doing the things on it. And then I wrote it down, here, to help myself remember it.

Happy Independence Day

2010-07-04T12:22:00.000-07:00

I have been meaning to write a post about why I haven't been writing many posts lately, but go figure, for all the reasons I haven't written about yet, I haven't finished it. So, I'm going to take the excellent suggestion offered by Wendy of Renewing Ruined Cities, who said I should consider re-posting some older (perhaps seasonal) material to fill some of the gaps. And as it happens, I have an Independence Day post that I wrote on a July 4th three years ago, in my very early days of blogging. This post was on my mind today, as my husband Mark told me this morning that he'd shared this very story -- about the way our family had transformed this day from an anniversary that was painful and triggering into a new beautiful tradition for the family -- in a meeting recently. So, I thought I'd reshare it with you all too...

Independence Day Fireworks
Originally Posted July 4, 2007

July 4th is Independence Day here in the United States. It is also Israeli Girl's birthday. My husband's relationship with Israeli Girl was his bottom: it was what finally caused him to admit his sexual behavior was out of control, that he was an addict. I began calling her Israeli Girl contemptuously: while not technically a girl, she was only 19 when my 30+ year old husband met her on a business trip abroad and began a several year long relationship with her. I don't feel the same contempt anymore, yet I still cannot quite bring myself to grace her with a name. Somehow, giving her a name gives her some humanness, some power, that I don't yet want her to have.

For years, Israeli Girl was one of the most worrisome splinters in my brain. I remember one year, on July 4th, Mark spent $70 of our money (I was furious when I saw the price) on a single international phone call to her, to say happy birthday. I listened to the entire call, jealously, edgily, because something seemed wrong, suspicious, off. I listened for any hint in his voice of anything beyond friendliness -- some trace of desire, seduction, attraction, deep caring, love -- but I didn't hear them, although I knew the sound of them well. And I settled back into a dissatisfied uneasiness, which persisted, until years later, everything fell apart, and made sense.

After my husband admitted his addiction, admitted that one April day he had finally hit bottom with Israeli Girl, July 4th was tainted. I imagined all of those beautiful fireworks going off to celebrate her birthday. I remembered the phone call, imagined what he must have written to her in those years e-mail messages they exchanged, and I couldn't stand to leave the house. This night four years ago, new in a black place of crushing, disbelieving pain, I cringed at each pop of a distant firework, each whistling rocket, and felt they were searing and exploding inside of me.

The next year, Mark and I were wondering aloud whether or not to go out and try to see fireworks. He was tired, and I was still angry and depressed. We both understood that subtext, although with the kids listening, we simply said to each other, "Should we go?" My son heard us talking and said, with verbal skills newly developed after a year of speech therapy, "I want to watch fireworks!" So, it was decided, and I declared it my Independence Day. I was not going to let a tyrannical past rule my present; I would not let the past cast a shadow that blotted the fireworks from the skies my children saw.

We didn't have a destination that year, we simply drove around until we saw some fireworks and parked the car by the side of the road to watch them. There is a Schoolhouse Rock song my son liked to listen to that contained a line, "Red, white and blue fireworks like diamonds in the sky..." As he gazed up into the sky, my son echoed it back, gasping, "They look like diamonds in the sky!" He was thrilled to see a smiley face in the sky, and to watch the blaze of fireworks that marked the end of the show.

As I was putting him to bed afterwards, I told him that he could go to sleep and dream about trains (which were his obsession at the time). When he said he didn't know what dreams were, I told him they were pictures in your head while you sleep. He looked thoughtful, and said, "We can go to sleep and see fireworks in the sky, and we can see that face and then lots and lots like diamonds in the sky."

See, I worried about Israeli Girl's birthday ruining the fireworks, when in fact, my son's joy, and the magic he saw in the sky, threw a light on that night that no dark memory could blot out. I wouldn't think of missing fireworks after that year.

Last year my daughter was awake and old enough to appreciate the fireworks for the first time. As she walked outside, she saw the moon, which was quite a new and exciting sight to her, since her bedtime was 7 p.m. She asked if the moon could come with us to see the fireworks, and I promised her it would. During our car ride, she looked out the car window, checking to make sure that the moon was following us to the fireworks display. When we arrived, she was thrilled to see the moon, still there, watching. She sat with her mouth open wide through the whole show and was too excited to fall asleep, even so long after her bedtime, on the way home.

She and her brother have been chattering all day about the fireworks, about sitting outside and eating cookies and having the moon there and seeing lots of them explode at the end of the show and waving our flags and singing love songs to our nation, like "America the Beautiful," which gives me goosebumps (truly) every time I hear it. My life may not always be perfect, and my country may not always be perfect, but both of us are free.

Happy Independence Day. Enjoy the fireworks.

Trauma

2010-07-02T15:13:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
Express Monorail on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

In the dream, I was driving on a highway laid out like silver thread between my home and the nearest big city. My husband was seated next to me, smiling, and I could feel the kids safely at home, laughing with their babysitter. It was just before sunset; the day's dying rays were golden on the water and the softly swaying dry grass as we approached the bridge.

My husband looked at me, and for a split second, I lost focus. I stopped looking at the road, and the car simply drifted serenely off the bridge and started plunging down, down before I knew we were in danger. We fell like Alice down the rabbit hole, falling for so long we seemed to hang suspended in the golden air. I felt like one often does feel in an accident: as if I were seeing everything in slow motion and if only my body would move as fast as my mind, I could do something to prevent the inevitable moment looming ahead. But the water waited unyielding below us. And I knew we were going to die at the end of that long fall. I had killed both of us in that momentary flicker of attention. My children were going to grow up without parents. I just hoped they would be asleep when the babysitter called and called the cell phones that would ring on without answer, wondering why we were so late.

I turned to Mark to say I was sorry for killing him; sorry that he was paying the price for my inattention. And he lookedsaidthought, "We all make mistakes, sometimes very bad ones." But he didn't blame me. He held out his hand and we sat, holding hands and falling, waiting for the impact that never came, as I woke with a start. I sat up, shivering, as the images flashed on my waking mind in the cold gray dawn, and I assigned the dream the moral: "I am feeling guilty for not paying enough attention, not being present enough, for my kids."

Irrational as I know it is, I have been terrified of driving that highway ever since. The dream was so vivid, that when I enter the stretch of road leading to the bridge I can see my dream self plunging off the side. If I hit an uneven stretch of pavement and the car jolts or swerves slightly, I feel my heart racing, my body taut with anxiety. I fear that at any minute, I might lose focus, lose control and lose everything. It only takes an instant to make a mistake from which there is no recovery.

I was driving that highway today, with my kids unusually occupied with drawing in the back seat, when I started to feel numb with panic thinking about the bridge. My kids' lives depended on me. Other drivers lives depended on me. And am I really to be trusted? My hand could slip on the steering wheel. Or jerk. Or freeze. What if I have a seizure? What if I fall asleep? What if I get a brain aneurysm? What if I suddenly become diabetic right here in the car and my blood sugar becomes unstable and I pass out? What if I panic so much I black out?

Of course, the only real problem was the panic, which was stubbornly refused to respond to either rational thought, meditation techniques or faith. I eyed the traffic, wondering where it might be safe to pull off and breathe, grumbling to myself, "I so need to talk to my doctor about anxiety meds. This is ridiculous. I can't function. What is really going on here? This isn't just about a stupid dream."

And my mind, as if relieved to have finally been pressed with a direct question, brought up an image of my destination: a park that formed a green oasis in the barren concrete, steel and glass of the city. We were meeting friends there, visiting from out of town. But eight years ago, on the day he hit bottom, my husband went on a different kind of visit there: a picnic to that park with one of his... What's the word for it? Lovers seems too intimate, mistresses too urbane, and acting out partners, too sterile. In any case, they met. The picnic was the appetizer, the foreplay, the prelude, the rising anticipation. Rolling the food on their tongues, then wiping their lips, packing the remains and walking, toward her house, her bed. I can see the way his hand slipped down the small of her back as she pulled him close under a tree for a kiss. Right there in the park. For anyone to see.

We were going to drive past the street to her old house on the way to the park. We were driving on the highway Mark had traveled, secretly, back and forth, from her house to our own. Was this panic -- over this highway, over loss, over lack of control, over mistakes from which there is no recovery -- not about the dream but a twisted response to past trauma? Was the dream, perhaps, not really about quite what I thought it was either? Those thoughts washed through me like water, like crystal clear liquid truth, taking the panic and the looming shadow of future annihilation away with them, leaving me staring at an old scar, still sometimes tender to the touch.

Summer Cleaning

2010-06-24T07:58:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
canonsnapper on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

It's summer: the season of kids around 24/7 and of subsequent blog neglect. It's also the season of summer visitors, passing through in cars bulging with luggage, fast food wrappers and warm, disheveled smiles. While some people like to do spring cleaning to prepare for those visitors, I (a hopeless procrastinator) prefer to do summer cleaning. And with the kids out of school, not only do I tend to need to do it anyway, but really, what better way to keep two bored kids occupied than by sorting old toys and rearranging furniture? So, we have been slowly working our way through the house and ridding ourselves of clothes, furniture and toys that are outgrown or just unused.

Most things go to charity and a few hopeless odds and ends find their way to the trash, but those things that are too nice to throw away but a little too worn or, um, scribbled upon in permanent marker end up being freecycled. Now, as a good sex addict codie, I know I really ought to do my freecycling through some other source than the website so bound up in addiction that it cannot be named, but I've found that nowhere else can I post any kind of crazy old junk -- from broken electronics to a nest for spiders that was once a stroller to a table with a dinosaur drawn on it in Sharpie -- and have ten people lined up to cart it all away in as many minutes. I've tried alternatives, believe me, but they just don't work. Left to choose between feeling unscrupulous for actually using The Site That Shall Not Be Named and distressed for having to take perfectly usable items to the dump (and guilty for not having maintained every part of every item in my home in pristine condition, with its original packaging and instruction manual), I've chosen unscrupulous.

And it honestly does make me feel unscrupulous. Seven years of hanging out with people who have used The Site That Shall Not Be Named for the worst of purposes and those who have been harmed by it have given me a nagging underlying feeling that everyone on the site is at best a liar and at worst a serial killer. And when I use the site, I feel like I'm trying to get away with something too, although it doesn't start out that way.

I start by posting a perfectly accurate description and picture like: "Small bookshelf. Unfinished wood. 36"x 36" x18". Decorated in blue Sharpie with a 3-year-old's depiction of PacMan eating dots, several smiley faces and the words 'i lik dinasors.'" Five minutes later, I have ten messages in my inbox each begging me to please, please bestow upon her (or him) the honor of carting away my bookcase. Some of the messages just say something like, "I want this if still available." And I find those only mildly suspicious. After all, maybe some of those are from some crazy person who just likes to screw with people who post things for free on The Site That Shall Not Be Named. They say they are going to come pick it up but -- psych! -- they never do. Instead, they sit giggling at home at the thought of that item sitting on the curb one extra day before someone else gets it.

But other messages try to convince me that they are more worthy of my esteemed stuff than the other people who might want it. These messages usually read something like, "My granddaughter would love this for her birthday next week!" or "I've always wanted one of these, but can't afford it!" These messages leave me wondering things like "Do you really have a granddaughter at all?" or "Maybe you are actually the CEO of AT&T but have some weird mental disease that makes you pretend you are poor while you go around collecting other people's old stuff."

So, with nothing else to go on, I always offer the item to the first person in my inbox and tell them so, but I always feel vaguely as if I'm lying, because I suspect that the liars I'm writing to will think I am.

Last week, I offered an old tricycle to a man who called himself Joe and said he wanted it for his kids. (Read: he doesn't have kids and was going to trade it to his dealer for crack.) When the trike hadn't been picked up a day after he said he was on his way right over, I called the number he sent.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Joe?"

"Um..." His bewilderment pulsed through the telephone line.

Just great, I think. Joe is one of his aliases. Ignoring his confusion, I plunge on, "My name is Mary. You responded to an ad about a trike on The Site That Shall Not Be Named."

I can hear "Joe" struggling to recall this. "Oh, yeah!" he said at last, "Is that still available?"

"Yes, I was calling to see what happened and if you were still interested."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. My girlfriend just had a kidney transplant last week and she's not doing so well."

A kidney transplant? Seriously? "So, you've obviously had other things on your mind. Totally understandable," I lied.

"Yeah. But I still do want it. I'm heading over right now!" said Joe.

"Ok."

That was one week ago. I never saw Joe, who (I assume) after finishing the bottle of whiskey he was drinking, got distracted by a prostitute, lost his car in a poker game and (once again) forgot all about the fact that he promised his drug dealer a trike. Or who went to visit his girlfriend in the hospital instead and happened to find another trike that would be just perfect for his kids. Either way, the trike went to "Anna," who wanted it for her "grandson." Or at least that's the story I'm telling. Since I post things on The Site That Shall Not Be Named, you really shouldn't believe a word I say. After all, how likely is it that I actually have kids or am doing any summer cleaning if I've actually managed to write this blog post?

Haiku Reviews

2010-06-04T03:25:00.000-07:00

Hand Wash Cold let me
sit with uncomfortable
and beautiful truths.

Slip transported me
to a time when my son was
newly diagnosed.

Karen and Tanya,
thank you for sharing yourselves,
for sharing your truths.

Carry that Weight

2010-06-03T03:37:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
Nena B. on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

A few months ago, Mark and I took the kids to a "sensory friendly" movie showing. Autistic individuals, and others with sensory processing difficulties, can find a typical movie going experience overwhelming. Movies are loud. Theaters are dark and often crowded. The screen is huge and the images on it are flickering and fast paced. There are previews and commercials before the show that switch rapidly from one theme to another, while we wait impatiently for what we actually came to see. Then when the movie does start, its story and situations are designed to evoke strong emotional responses: to scare or thrill or amaze us. And did I mention they're LOUD?

Most of us go to the movies to be a little overwhelmed. But for some people, all of that can be too much. So, at sensory friendly showings, there are no previews. The lights are dim, but the theater is not dark. And the sound is turned down. And not only that, it's ok to sing or talk or to get up and walk around, dance or jump if it all gets to be too much anyway.

At the showing we went to, some kids got up and paced the aisles. Some rocked in their seats. Some grunted or chirped. My son commented on the movie at full voice. (Whispering is only for secrets.) And we all had a fun day out doing something different while nobody stared. Nobody glared. Nobody shifted uncomfortably in their seats and made little "hem" noises in their throats. The air didn't buzz with electric hostility. And nobody had to worry that, at any moment, it might.

I don't know about the other parents in that theater, but I felt like I'd been able to put down a hundred pound weight. The kids and young adults in that theater could all be themselves, and we all understood. No one said anything or did anything, but there was a palpable sense of acceptance in the air. It hung there, invisible but enveloping, like the drowsy smell of honeysuckle on a warm afternoon. What a relief. Which made me realize just how guarded I am and how much weight, how much fear and tension and worry, I carry every day.

This past weekend, I went to a convention for my 12 Step group. Hundreds of sex addicts and their partners or family members gathered in hotel conference rooms and ballrooms. There were meetings and workshops and outings. There were speakers who shared their experience, strength and hope. At each banquet iced tea was served instead of alcohol. No one gossiped about the latest infidelity scandal in the media. People openly shared their pain and their weaknesses and their gratitude. And all weekend long, I had nothing to do but connect with my Higher Power in a group of people who was supporting me in doing just that. All weekend long, I felt I had nothing to worry about and nothing to fear.

Again that love and acceptance enveloped me. Again that hundred pound weight dropped off my shoulders. Again the relief washed over me. And again I realized just how guarded I am and how much weight, how much fear and tension and worry, I carry every day.

On the last day of the convention, I wept with gratitude for the gift of having been there. (If you were one of the lovely ladies sitting around a hotel banquet table with me on Monday morning at breakfast, yes, that was me crying and smiling at you all crazy.) We were asked on that last day if we had picked up any burdens that we wanted to leave behind, and I couldn't think of any. All I could think was that I needed to try not to reshoulder the burdens I'd set down when I entered.

In Memory of Henry Louis Granju

2010-06-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Image credit: Photo by
kevincole on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

Sometimes I picture those who are in the grips of addiction as falling down into a chasm so hopelessly dark that eventually no memory of light remains and so endlessly deep that it can take years of hurtling down, scrapping the rough walls and smashing into rocky outcrops, before the falling ends.

In the happy ending, the recovery ending, the addict lands somewhere -- broken and battered, but safe -- and calls out for help. Hands are extended, light grows, and the addict starts climbing. That's the ending I pray for, every day and in every moment of silence in every 12 Step meeting I attend. And that's the one I see manifested in so many beautiful lives around me.

But in the other ending -- the one we all fear -- Death sweeps in, swift as darkness, to stopper that cry for help and cut off the ascent before it can begin. Death may come wrapped in a cloak of despair or disease or irreparable physical damage, but it always comes tragically and too early.

And when it comes at just 18 -- as it did for blogger Katie Granju's son Henry this weekend -- it is so unnaturally early, the sharp horror steals my breath like a plunge in icy water.

I don't have the power to erase, or even fully understand, that loss, that grief. In fact, I didn't know Henry, nor do I know Katie, except virtually and in passing, through another blog I follow. Yet my heart is with them. Recovery has taught me that we are all connected, that grace shines through the loving-kindness of those around us (often total strangers) and that the knowledge that we are not alone in the darkness can lift us up. So, knowing that many of my readers know the pain or the fear of losing a loved one to addiction, I ask you to please consider dropping by Katie's blog with your condolences or donating to Henry's memorial fund, which will provide financial assistance for families who cannot pay for drug and alcohol treatment for their children and may be just the light in the darkness someone needs.