Mary Bailey Was a Friend of Lois* (Or: Tips on How To Get Through A Holiday).

It's late here on Christmas Eve, and my lids are falling as I type this, stiff-thumbed, on my phone.  So I apologize beforehand for what will be a rushed post.  But I was watching "It's A Wonderful Life" tonight and I couldn't help but notice the striking resemblance between George Bailey and my husband.

In a couple scenes we see George with Mary and he is (somewhat understandably) distracted, agitated, confused, self-absorbed and at times looks a little crazy.  When he comes home after finding out the $8,000 is lost like, for sure, his face is drawn, his eyes are wild with worry, fear, and he clutches his child and cries desperately.  Mary sees him, and we watch as, slowly, the bewilderment and then acknowledgement of the situation registers on her face. And then...she does nothing.  She turns back to the tree and the kids and she goes about her business.  She goes about her business. THEN, even after George lashes out and wonders why they had all these kids anyway (a little unacceptable, methinks) she tries to guide him into the kitchen and away from the kids, and she doesn't even look angry. You can see the love on her (concerned) face. 

She speaks up for the kids after his outburst (because she's not a doormat) but doesn't argue with him, and when he leaves she doesn't follow him to ask him what the hell is wrong with him.  Sure, she does call around to the entire town and try to help George and figure out what's wrong (after all, she's an Al Anon) but she didn't nag, scold or complain, she didn't lose her temper.  She observed his behavior as his property. 

Today was a tough day for me.  My husband is in the mood where he just seems to completely hate me; his demeanor with me fluctuates from barely-concealed disdain to complete ambivalence.  He isn't saying anything mean or being abusive - he is just withdrawn in a silent rage.  It's been a while since I've attended a good meeting, and though I could blame my slips on that fact, I fear I am reaching the end of my rope.  In the past few days I've seen myself behave as the kind of person I never thought I would be (after recovery) - extremely passive-aggressive, sarcastic, short, on edge, and just rude. Here I am with my family at Christmas and I am letting this trip and this holiday be about my husband's alcoholism and my pain.  That's not fair to me, my family, or my husband.

My home-meeting's lead today was about expectations. As I've mentioned before, there's the saying that "expectations are resentments waiting to happen."  Last Christmas my husband behaved just the same way he has been the last few days.  It wasn't always like this, and sure it's hard to find the similarities in a once-a-year celebration.  I can't reasonably expect my husband to behave in whatever way I deem desirable "because it's Christmas."  I can't think to myself, wishfully, "Sure, he acts this way all the time - but it's Christmas."  Unfortunately addiction doesn't honor holidays, or birthdays, or anniversaries.  I can't expect him to be thoughtful, selfless, affectionate, interested in spending time with me and my family, curious about my day, the list goes on and on.  That's just how it is, and to wish or hope or expect otherwise borders on masochism. 

At this point, my only expectation should be that, as an alcoholic, my husband will continue to drink until he reaches his bottom, if that ever happens.  Even on Christmas. 

Some things that I will try to keep in mind tomorrow, that I hope can help some of you as well:

1) This is not about me.  I have done nothing to deserve the treatment I'm getting, so I can stop trying to figure out what I did, or why he is this way. 

2) Alcoholics drink because they're alcoholics.  Not because (fill in the blank). 

3) I didn't cause it, can't control it and can't cure it.

4) This day will not be about his disease or my pain because of it.  I am going to enjoy the day and be happy regardless of his drinking. 

5) I will "let it begin with me."  Other people's moods do not dictate my moods, do not control my behavior and do not make me the type of person who isn't kind on purpose, who reserves her affection for others and punishes her husband with a cold and silent shoulder out of retaliation.  Living this way is exhausting and just for today, I can't do it.

6)  I will keep my focus on the conversations I'm supposed to be paying full and complete attention to, really enjoy whatever movie we're watching, savor our meal and smile with an open and easy heart.

Time to go to sleep now, this elf is wiped.  And though I'm a little sad I'm not giving that emotion or my husband's alcoholism the power over my day.  My family and friends have blessed me with their love and friendship and support; I have so much for which to be grateful and this day is about so much more. 

To all a good night and may we all have peace, comfort and joy. 

*Al Anon was started by Lois Wilson, wife of Bill Wilson (the founder of AA). Those in Al Anon are sometimes called "a friend of Lois" as AA members are "a friend of Bill." 

Working On My White Space

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I need to stop staring at the black dot.

A program friend of mine attended a newcomer's meeting recently, in which she heard a fantastic share: a woman recalled how her sponsor held up a blank sheet of paper, and then on the sheet of paper put one black dot.  When asked what she saw, the woman said "a black dot."  Her sponsor then wisely pointed out the overwhelming amount of blank space around the dot.  

"The blank space is waiting to be filled with our lives, our hopes and our dreams.  Our passions, hobbies and interests."

When I heard this I thought - "I. Am so. Tired."  

The other morning I woke up with a migraine.  Woke up, after a full night's sleep, with a migraine.  And all I could think was, "Hey, wait a second - isn't the wrong person hungover, here?"  

But just like my husband may become sick with withdrawal from alcohol, I make myself sick - with the constant obsession over what he's thinking, planning, drinking, and the subsequent withdrawals of ME.  

MY plans.

MY interests.

MY passions.

MY life.

Back in the day, I used to be a much more interesting person.  I used to you know, know stuff.  Stuff that I could talk about intelligently and passionately, like books.  Books that I was able to read cover to cover without stopping because it was before the time that it became too much work to read something so completely unrelated to anything having to do with alcoholism, recovery - basically anything that I was too busy worrying about to actually live my life.  And to boot, all this has left me feeling oh, a tad socially awkward.

I have lost myself.

A few months ago, a kind soul opened her home to me while I was traversing the country on a wee road trip.  A planned lunch stop was quickly rescheduled.  "I think you should stay the night :o)" she texted.  So it was a lovely two days of lounging, chatting, drinking tea, exploring, doing everyday things, drinking more tea, and being in the world again.

At one point my friend asked me The Question.  The Question which I had so much trouble answering that made me think, something is really wrong here.  Why is this so hard?  It went like this:

"So what kinds of movies do you typically watch?"
"Um..."
".....?"
"....."
"Comedies?"
"Um...."
"Well what was the last movie you saw?"
"...."
"....?"
"Hold on I'm thinking."

Finally I squeaked out "Yeah, um, comedies...um...historical dramas?"  I was in a panic.  The fact of the matter was I didn't even know what movies I like anymore.  I may as well have answered with something like "Movies good.  Popcorn.  Actors."  *Facepalm*

So as I'm thinking about all this I had a little epiphany.  Have you ever seen one of those optical illusions where you look at a picture for a length of time and then afterwards, the picture remains in your sight?  That's the problem with focusing on the black dot so intensely.  Even when you try to look away YOU SEE IT EVERYWHERE.  Dot.  Dot.  Dot!  DOT.  A hologram haunting every attempt at refocus elsewhere.  

Sure, the black dot is there.  There's nothing we can do about the black dot itself - it exists in our lives, I mean, it's there.  To pretend it's not there is denial, and I was there for a long time.  If we want the black dot to "go away", that would mean a few different things: after some serious thinking about whether to stay or go, either the removal of ourselves from our relationship...or?  That's it.  If we don't want the black dot in our lives, that's it.

For those of us who remain, or for those of us who may have a relationship with a high-functioning alcoholic and cannot break up or divorce that person (they are our parents, our children, or other family members) what we can do is work on our white space.  Fill up our own lives with who we are, what we're passionate about.  Maybe it's a favorite charity to which we haven't devoted much time, maybe it's taking more time to care for our own health and well-being - making that yoga class on Wednesday nights that we "never have time for" or asking a friend or neighbor to watch the kids so we can catch a movie.  Or relaxing and reading that book that's been gathering dust on our nightstand, getting back into an old hobby or interest, catching up with friends.  I guarantee you there are tons of things I can't even think of because I'm just not completely there yet myself to even fathom what they are.

What it means, ultimately, is to be more present in our own lives.  To honor our own spirits, our amazingly varied and special personalities, and to nourish the relationships we have with friends and family.  I can tell you this - sure, I am geographically handicapped and am miles and miles from those I love, but I sure miss my friends.  A few in particular, who had been such a bright, fun source of friendship and support, that surely I was not a proper friend to, as I was too busy dealing with "everything" to really be there for them.  And they spent so much time being there for me, lifting and filling me up.  They knew my circumstances and I felt safe with them, free from judgment.

My heart misses them, and as we're right in the middle of the holiday season it makes me want to drive all the way to their houses, skip wildly back and forth in front of their front lawns with signs and say "Thank you!  Thank you for seeing ME in the middle of everything, thank you for loving and caring for ME.  Now it's your turn!"  My friends and family are such a huge part of ME, and who I am, and fostering relationships with my wonderful "family of choice" is a tremendous blessing.  And I hope that I can get closer to being the real ME as I come out of this dark cloud, to be the real and great friend, daughter, sister and loved one that I know I am.

We are so fortunate to have those in our lives that do this for us, and it's completely and totally okay that sometimes we are that person that do those things for us, that we are enough.  A couple weeks ago I ordered a gorgeous flowery electric tea kettle, and a dainty cup and saucer set, just one of each.  And at night, after a lovely bath with essential oils, I truly relish sitting down to a great cup of Earl Grey, reading my new favorite book, surrounded by my snoozing animals.  It doesn't sound like much but it's a huge step for me, and I love it.  Maybe it's serenity that I'm experiencing, and it's a feeling that I didn't think I could have in my situation.  It makes me feel stronger and more able to take care of myself, and build my own life.  That I can and will be okay.  That I am enough.

There are certain things that make me feel like myself again.  The Real Me is in there, and when I do these things she opens her eyes, yawns and stretches at the day, looks around and says "Ah, here I am.  I am here."

What are those things for you?  What helps you feel like yourself again?

It's That Time of Year, and it can be challenging to focus on our white space right now.  But as always, my hope stretches out to you that you can find a small corner of your own white space, curl up in it or stretch out, throw some pottery, go hiking, sign up for that beginner's French class you always wanted to take, make your grandmother's ravioli, dance around and frolic or take a nap.  Whatever floats your boat.

As for me, time to go study up on Netflix.  If someone else asks me The Question anytime soon, I want to be prepared.

Keep Your Mind Where Your Feet Are.

Sometimes when things are so frustrating with my husband, I have tunnel-vision and focus on his itchy, irksome behavior or anything else over which I have absolutely NO control - his secret drinking, his in-front-of-me drinking, the fact that he's an alcoholic, how he loads the dishwasher - and *POOF*!  There goes my hour.  Or my day.  Or my week!  Year...yikes.

We just got back from our trip for the 4th, where we had some amazing outdoors experiences.  Amazing experiences that almost passed me by because I was stuck in my head and living through my husband's experience of withdrawal, cravings, distance, and anger, and not my own.  True, it sometimes seemed as though he was on vacation and I just happened to be there, but it didn't mean that I had to stop enjoying myself with such pathetic resignation after becoming aware of what I was doing.  No way.  NO. WAY.

So as my mind swirled with fear and worry and resentment and anger and hurt and grief and damn, ANGER, I literally stopped in my tracks and let my husband get even farther ahead of me on our hike, looked down at my feet, and closed my eyes.  I pressed into the dirt.  I wiggled my toes.  I tried with every force I could muster to figuratively shoot my mind and thoughts down my spine, through my legs and into my shoes.

"THERE.  You are THERE on the ground, on this path.  We are here in this moment," I told my mind and my feet.  They stared back at me, dusty and without response.  Which was comforting really because at that point in my insanity I half-expected something in return.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of the beautiful clear and crisp air, looked up at all surrounding me and felt myself become enveloped by the space.  Pushing out anything negative and harmful just for that moment.  It was so important that all the miles we had traveled to get there turn out something healing and peaceful for me if just for that moment.

Sometimes there is a fear of letting go of that focus, like taking our eyes off a boiling pot.  "If something happens and my guard isn't up, I'll be wounded" or "If I don't try to figure this out or prepare I will be left feeling helpless or stupid."  But it is impossible to be prepared for everything, and hyper-vigilance is hardly the answer.  Part of what was going on was simple, really - my husband's disease is progressing and, as my sponsor wisely pointed out, the withdrawal is progressing as well.  He couldn't have his drink when he wanted it (didn't want me to see that he had smuggled in liquor in his bag, perhaps) and so he was angry and on edge.  As for the rest of it - the specific How's and Why's - I can't figure it out, and shouldn't keep trying to.  It's futile and really just not my job, not my deal.  In fact, one of the sayings in both AA and Al Anon is "Figuring it out isn't one of the steps."  So I'm off the hook there.

The rest of the trip I was able to (mostly) enjoy myself, even the good, sweet moments with my husband, which was great.  I like to think it's because I was able to just stop obsessing about what's going on in his head and do the next right thing.  Which was look out the window on our drive, and watch the scenery go by, soaking it all in and living through my OWN experience and feelings.  Here's hoping I can keep on doing that.

Secret Drinking

Most evenings I greet my husband at the door when he returns home from work, hug and kiss him hello, smell it on his breath, and just continue to pretend I don't notice.  Quite a few times I've caught myself sniffing, and he noticed ("What?") and still I said nothing.  The times he comes home and there doesn't happen to be an odor, sooner or later throughout the evening it will usually appear.

Sometimes it feels like I am playing a little game called "I Know You Secretly Drink But I'll Pretend I Don't Know So We Can Try To Be Happy Together", and even though I am playing by the made-up rules (and the rules I made up myself, mind you!) I'm still losing.  Part of being in Al Anon is understanding that we don't talk about the alcoholic's drinking with the alcoholic.  Actually, I'm pretty sure this hasn't even been suggested but it's what I gather from the program.  Indeed, the times I have discussed my husband's drinking with him, things did not go well.

Part of being a "functioning alcoholic" is that my husband is able to keep up his professional life and remain successful in his field while being a good provider to us.  The "alcoholic" part is that he drinks, he hides his drinking and also, he is drinking alone.  And, I suspect, everyday.  So he drinks everyday, alone, sometimes in his car before coming in the door so I can't see it (I prefer to think it's this instead of drinking while he drives home), and sometimes upstairs in our side room where I also can't see it.  He hides the bottles so that if and when I go inside, I'm none the wiser.

From what I have learned, there are a few reasons alcoholics hide their drinking:

1. To increase their intake unnoticed.

To clarify, though most of my husband's drinking is in secret, not all of it is - on weekends he puts on the show for me called "See, I Bought This Six Pack And Only Drank One And Didn't Even Finish It."  (I hate that show, it's always reruns).  In his mind, he's showing me he can control himself.  And for a while I believed it was true.

But one night, reality smacked me across the face.  He had a glass of red wine downstairs that he was nursing.  He took a sip and went upstairs.  I needed something from our bedroom and when I went up, our dog followed me - when he saw her (but not me) he told her to go downtairs.  Turning around, I saw his mini-wine bottle up in the air as he downed the last drops of the white wine inside.  When he came down from his sip he saw me seeing him; I said nothing and walked back downstairs.

My first thought was "But - he has his...glass of red...wine...downstairs...?"  Well gee golly gosh.


2. The alcoholic knows their relationship with alcohol has become unhealthy.

At some point last year, my husband mentioned to me that he was working later and later at work because he figured the less time he was at home, the less time he had to drink.  He has made other comments to me that leads me to believe he may be grappling with the idea that he has a problem:

"I know I do, and I don't care.  And if you don't like my drinking you can leave."
"Well, I know I have, you know - whatever - but it's not a problem until it becomes a problem."

When I caught my husband making a drink upstairs in another room:  "You moved the bar upstairs?"  I couldn't help myself.  "Yeah well I know it bothers you so I don't do it around you."

Recently my husband told me some facts about how alcohol affects dopamine in addicts.  "How do you know this?" I asked him.

"I looked it up online."  Genuinely, I gave him a quizzical look.  "Because I thought I might be an alcoholic!" he said.


3.  Denial (They're hiding it from themselves).

I would imagine that drinking out in the open - and in front of me, especially - causes my husband to feel judged and ashamed.  He knows very well how I feel about his drinking, especially because I find it so damn hard not to make my little comments to let him know that I don't approve.  This in turn probably has a few effects, one of which is to really look at his drinking and at himself.  And seeing as he is still trying to control his drinking and further the idea that he doesn't have a problem, any introspective place probably isn't a very comfortable place for him to be.

So, let's just hide the drinking and I can pretend my wife doesn't know - because if she doesn't have proof I can say I'm not drinking as much as she thinks I am, or anything at all even.  And then I can also pretend that this isn't a huge problem, and I'm just hiding it because my wife is a controlling, judgmental wench of a woman who hates me and doesn't see that after all my hard work and providing for her, I deserve some booze right?  This last part is something he has told me in his own words - "I mean, I don't have kids, I don't have a house - can't I at least have this?"

Also regarding denial - after my husband let me know that he had searched online for information on alcoholism after thinking he possibly is one, he proceeded to tell me the difference between himself and an addict.  "Addicts say that they have no control over it, they can't control it.  But for me, every time I drink I'm choosing to drink, it's a choice."


Like discovering squirrel plantings out in the garden,  I've found bottles buried in the nooks and crannies of our home.

Hiding places are found by me accidentally, typically during cleaning up (and in my early recovery, during remedial Step 1 moments of searching).  Pushing a chair out of the way to vaccuum and I find empty pints underneath.  Looking for the cat under the bed in our other room and there are empty tall cans and mini wine bottles.  Checking the side closet for moving boxes I see that on the top shelf was his top shelf Seagrams VO, mostly empty.  Also:

In between the mattress and box spring of a spare bed.

In his work bag.
Stuffed in the couch between cushions.
In his jacket after a road trip.

In the trash he takes out.
Behind his computer monitor where I couldn't see.
On our bar, but behind a bottle of a kind of liquor he doesn't or won't drink.
Under the front seat.
In his luggage.
In the trunk.

Sometimes the bottles never surface, and the scent is just lingering in the air, on his breath, or in an empty can of soda.

The times I've ever delicately mentioned finding bottles (definitely in the context of a drinking discussion, and not a random topic of conversation) my husband maintains that the found bottles are old and have been there for "who knows how long."

Before we moved some of our things this past weekend, we got the oil changed on my husband's car.  It had been a nice weekend for the most part, and a nice day in particular.  But wouldn't you know, when I got in and saw some empty mini-wine bottles on the floor of the passenger side and coming out from under the seat, my husband's mood shifted pretty quickly.  He clammed up, his eyes were wide, and before I knew it he was driving, nay, speeding to the oil change place.  A little too roughly I may add - taking turns fast and flying into driveways.  Surely, he was pissed.  But why?  I hadn't even said anything and did my best to pretend I didn't even notice - which was probably ridiculous considering how obvious the bottles were.

A friend of mine who is a "double winner" (in both Al Anon and AA recovery programs) explained to me that he wasn't angry at me - he's angry that I had found one of his hiding places.  He had been "found out."  That alcoholics are filled with shame and that that shame is exacerbated by someone who discovers their secrets, whether through discovering hiding places or anything else that supports or is related to their addiction.  "His way of life is threatened."

His way of life.  Drinking alone, drinking in secret, drinking period.

So how am I getting through this?  It is a struggle, but I have accepted that my husband is an adult - he has the right to drink.  I also have a right to not accept his drinking or the consequences to our relationship, and I recognize that unacceptable behavior is unacceptable.  To that end one of my options would be to tell him my concerns and be prepared to take any following steps for me and make my choices - this is not my strong suit.  Though it's taken me a while, I have learned that I can control the message but not the outcome (typically my past behavior was to tell him my message over and over again, for hours, essentially begging or pleading him to stop doing x and please do y, etc. until we were both exhausted.  Never worked).

Lastly, as ever I try to keep the focus on myself.  His drinking habits can easily become an obsession of my own, and so I tell myself to stop thinking of where he may be hiding his bottles tonight, to stop calculating how much I think he's had, and so on.  The only way to get through something like this isn't to ignore it, but to accept it, and to also accept that I'm powerless over the alcoholism.  I am powerless over my husband's own opinion of whether or not he has a problem, and I am powerless over his decision or lack thereof to enter recovery.

And so I continue attending meetings, talking to my sponsor and program friends, reading the literature, working on my business, and posting here.  This may be my secret from my husband, but it is a secret that I hope is maybe helping someone out there gain some perspective and realize that they aren't alone.

Keep Hope Alive

A few days ago I purchased this greeting card.  Discovering it in the store gave me a thrill - for the past couple weeks I have been wanting to post here about the subject of hope, and planned to include an image of the first few lines of Emily Dickinson's poem against a photo of yes, a bird.  Originally I was going to include a gorgeous photograph of a crimson red cardinal, warm and bright against a wintry background.  Fitting, I thought, for the idea of hope.  Cue finding this card, and it's been resting on my work desk ever since.

Hope is for some of us a scary concept, especially those of us prone to extremes (ahem).  Too much of it and we mistake the comfort for a free Greyhound ticket to Denial (Greyhound should be the only accepted and allowed method of transport back to grimy, backwards Denial.  Our punishment for such a masochistic trip).  We tell ourselves, "There's hope!"  We hope for them to get sober, we hope for them to make amends, we hope for them to realize all they've done to hurt us and hope that they'll realize just how much they don't want to lose us so that they'll choose us over the bottle.  We hope that we can be their consequence, their bottom.  Is that really what I want to hope for?  "Why can't I be his bottom?"  Uh, ew.

Too little hope and we are in despair.  We are hopeless.  Stuck in our doom and gloom we catastrophize and worry, we prepare for the worst - starring heroines (or heros) in our own imaginary fairytale tower, we lay in wait thinking there is just no damn way our one true love is going to slay their own shitty dragon.  Nope, we're just victims and there's absolutely nothing we can do.  We focus on our qualifiers and lose ourselves.

Of course, there needs to be a balance with hope, and there needs to be an understanding of just what kind of hope is okay to hope.  The hope is ultimately for our own serenity, whether the alcoholic is drinking or not.  It is for us.  But us good al anons, we love to give everything to our alcoholics.  

"You can take this, you can take that, here have this too - I will give you everything I have until I am sucked dry and exhausted and without dignity and self-respect, and then I will feel guilty for not being able to give you more.  Here, I will even give you my hope!  It's all I have left, but it's yours now, so the hope is for you to stop drinking.  It's not about me anymore."

Cut to today.  After a "French Chic" themed lunch with friends after the morning meeting, I was on my way home down a main street, a box of 6 macarons as my co-pilot (talk about a sweet ride).  

Driving along, I followed a turn in the road and saw something in the middle of the lane next to me.  It was a bird. Sitting awkwardly and obviously injured, it gazed up at the sky with its mouth agape.  I was horrified and wishing with the sick feeling in my stomach that it didn't die that way, crying out in pain or for help.  

"Maybe it's not dead."  I started the conversation with myself.

"Am I really going to turn around for this bird?"  

"Well you can't let it sit there in the road - it's going to get hit."

"People are going to think I'm crazy going into the road for a bird.  Am I really going to do this?"

"So. *shrug*  You rescue snails on the sidewalk."

"What if it's dead?  I mean, what if it's dead?  Can you handle that?"

"But what if it's not.  Can you handle not knowing?  Can you handle that?"

Sigh.  No.  No I can't.

I flip a U-turn, enter the adjacent shopping center and empty a shoebox I happen to have in the front seat.  I hurry out of the car in my red suede pumps to the road, waiting for cars to stop flying by.  At first from my distance, the bird is so still it does appear to be dead.  But a car whooshes over it and then another, and I see its head turn to and fro.  It is petrified.  Its mouth is agape again, without a sound.

At this point, I am visibly pleading with the cars.  "Please stop!''  And then I say my worst fear out loud.  "Please don't hit this bird in front of me, please don't hit this bird!"  Surely people must see the little one, but no one slows or stops.  No one except one crazy Francophile broad in an ill-fitting black vest and red lipstick who may or may not be talking to herself.

The traffic slows and I take my chance, scooping the bird into the box.  When it tries to get away I'm relieved - it's in better shape than I thought.  Okay little one, I tell the flapping box, okay.  

Wouldn't you know, there's an animal clinic in that very shopping center.  I teeter through the parked cars, my long tassel necklace swaying side to side with my hurry, and through the doors of the clinic, breathless with a mixture of embarrassment and too many crêpes.  The receptionist's gaze, though unwavering, betrays her wish to eyeroll me.

"We don't take birds here.  And even if we did the vet is gone for the day."  She directs me to a clinic down the road that takes birds.  Somehow we make it in spite of my attempts at keeping the box steady and shock-absorbed by knee-driving.  The office cat flirts with me while I wait.  Now that I think about it he probably wanted what he saw as a neatly-wrapped snack.  The woman ahead of me looks curiously at the Donald Pliner box (eBay) but never asks.

"Oh you'll want to take it to the wildlife rescue." Again, directed elsewhere. "They're closed now but just bang on the door - they're still inside."  On the road again, feeling like Goldilocks.

We arrive, along the way passing a few critters in the road who hadn't been so lucky.  After some frantic knocking I see ah, the door is unlocked.  A confused volunteer pushes it open and invites me in.  I hurry to the admissions desk like Shirley MacLaine, and another volunteer swiftly and gently takes the bird from me.

"Here, fill this out" - someone else hands me an admission form.  An admission form.  I briefly think to myself, "Really?" but almost collape in relief at the bureaucratic validation of this midday rescue mission.

Date.  Time.  Species.  # Individuals.  I print legibly and press firmly as instructed.

Reason(s) for Admission - CAUGHT BY CAT (in all caps - not sure why).  BAT - COMPLETE QUESTIONNAIRE (also in all caps).  Electrocuted.  Caught by Dog.  Gun shot (dear god).  Vehicle collision.  Possible poisoning.  Caught in trap.  Struck window.  Caught by human.  Fell in pool.  Unknown trauma.  "Caught by human," hehe.  Technically true.  I end up going with "unknown trauma."

The volunteer who took the bird comes back from a room I can't see, presumably where some of the animals are kept.  "Is he - or she - going to be okay?"

"She.  Yes she's just a little freaked out right now but I think she'll be okay.  Right now she's in the room with the baby birds."  The volunteer behind the desk lets me know I can check on her using the number referenced on my form.

A small sign at the desk asks "Please help us care for your animal with a tax deductable donation!".  As I sign a check for $20, I tell her about the greeting card.  I figure what the hell, so I ask her.

"Can I name her...Hope?"

She smiles.  "You know, if you name the animal we actually write it on the top of their form, and you can check on her using that name."  She writes it down, and hands me my copy.

As I write this, my hope is that the wildlife center is doing their best to keep Hope alive.  To heal her, to nurse her back to health, to rehabilitate her and one day, to set her free to fly again.  And right now I can honestly say that I feel her perched in my soul.  Singing the tune without the words, never stopping at all.

It Has Nothing To Do With You. Really.

I read somewhere recently that "The alcoholic isn't drinking at you."  They're not doing it, in other words, to upset you, to irritate you, to piss you off, to make you depressed and wonder why the hell you married them.  Although you may wonder that.  Alcoholics drink because they're alcoholics.  They may try to blame it on someone or something.  But it isn't personal.

It's a shame that it took two weeks of really phenomenally romantic, sweet and thoughtful behavior on the part of my husband to catalyze the epiphany that you know what?  Wow.  This has nothing to do with me.  I've been the same - doing the same sweet things, talking the same, texting the same, asking the same questions, doing my own thing.  It's him that has come around.

I say it's a shame because for most of us - for me, anyway - the crappier things said to me have always been easier to believe, as if it is the truth being reflected back to me through the behavior of others.  This poor treatment leads to me feeling somehow to blame.  And it starts with the Why's - Why is he doing this?  Why is he suddenly acting this way?  Why is he like this to me?  Why does he treat me and only me like this?  Then there are the How's - How does this happen?  How does he think this is okay?  How can he not see what this is doing to me?  How does this happen?  Inevitably the Why's and the How's lead to the Maybe's.  Maybe if I hadn't said this.  Maybe if I tried doing that.  Maybe if next time I make sure this.  Maybe it's because he needs more sleep.  Maybe he's really truly actually upset about that.  

Then comes the self-blame, the guilt, and down the rabbit hole I go, sucked into the darkness with a pinhole of light above me that I can't see.  I'm hopeless, helpless, out of control and out of my mind with fear, stuck in The Past and scared to death of The Future.  Meanwhile, The Present goes by and if I am not worried, distraught and depressed, I busy myself with distractions - some healthy, some not so healthy.  But mostly I ponder The Dilemma, which is What Am I Going To Do?  And the wind blows, and The Present slips away, and there I am moving along into The Future that I'm so afraid of, looking over my shoulder into The Past.

Today's meeting topic was "letting go and starting over."  Lightbulb.  "I've forgotten that phrase, 'Let go or be dragged' " I shared today, and went on to describe the analogy of my current experience, which is me clinging for life to a rope tied to my husband's truck as he drags me along, "Oh, go ahead and go wherever you want and just drag me along, I'll just be hanging back here for the bumps and twists and turns."  But you can't yank a truck to a stop as you're being pulled by it any more than you can stop the direction an alcoholic is moving toward and pull them back to reality, reign them in.

This is, in my mind, a Step 1 issue.  "Focusing on anyone else but ourselves keeps us in denial" was part of the lead today, and it's so true - the more I focus on his behavior, the more I start to wonder why, and how, and think maybe, and pretty soon I think well, I could fix this somehow.  Which is the illusion of control.  And remember - the Three C's tell us that we didn't Cause it, can't Control it, and can't Cure it.  So thinking that I'm somehow to blame, that maybe if I do x it will fix it, completely goes against this wise acronym.

It is so much easier, I have found, to lovingly detach when things are consistently bad than when there is a dramatic change for the better in our circumstances.  Suddenly I am right there where I used to be, feeling connected with my husband, forgetting that yes, this too shall pass, and when the pendulum swings the other way I find myself just absolutely crushed.  And I must tell you all that I cannot remember a time in the recent past several years in which my husband had been this consistently good to me.  I don't just mean the absence of fits or tantrums or emotional/verbal abuse - I mean proactively kind and thoughtful treatment.  To have him switch back so quickly was a swift kick to the groin of my heart.  So to speak.  I have been devastated and despondent, grieving and angry.

So for now, I am trying to remember that this has nothing to do with me.  I'm a good wife to my husband.  I am far from perfect and I make my mistakes, but throughout I do my conscious best to remain loving and kind.  In no way do I deserve unacceptable behavior, and in no way does his drinking or tantrums have anything to do with me.  My husband has his choices, though he may not see this or understand them, and I have mine.  My choices and my behavior are my property - his are his.  It doesn't matter if he says he's upset for this reason or that.  Even if I have screwed up or said something rude, my husband does not need to react the way he usually does.  He has his choices.

It has nothing to do with me.  Really.

Taking My Own Inventory - Check.

This last weekend, Saturday night specifically, I had an epiphany.

After an already tough couple of days (read: there was already an incident) my husband snapped at me during dinner, and I got up and left the room.  I was fuming with the kind of anger I feel after comparing the Before and After of my husband's attitude shifts, mourning the loss of something good, something lovely, something positive, that has been replaced with...this.  How could things be so different now than they were 10 minutes ago?  How does that happen?

But after I calmed down, I realized well, it just happens.  And I can't keep drowning myself in the why's and how's.  It just happens.  *Shrug*  So there I stood next to the dishes of our half-eaten dinner, reviewing the details of the weekend in general and as simply as possible.

I went to drop off our dogs at boarding for our weekend getaway.

My husband got a haircut.

I bought road trip snacks.

My husband got the oil changed.

I came home to pack.

My husband did some laundry.

Everything seemed to do well until he lamented that he was displeased with his haircut (again! ok sorry) and after telling him he looked fine, made the mistake of pressing him on where he got it done.  Long story short, after this I was told that I "never sympathize" with him, and things went pretty badly from there.

But you know what?  He was right.

I don't often sympathize with my husband.  In fact, when it comes to really big issues - him being unhappy at his job, him hating the city we live in, him being upset that we "had" to foreclose on our previous house, him being unhappy with a haircut - I don't often recall saying something, anything, resembling "I'm sorry."  "I'm so sorry you feel that way."  "Ugh, that must be hard, I'm sorry."

Instead, I typically do the following:

1) Try to solve the problem.  Maybe you could do "x" next time;  How about this?  What about that?

2) Point out how he was/is wrong.  Why didn't you do this?  Ah, you could have done that.  Well next time we know to go there instead.  You're feeling this way but it's because you didn't realize you did x.

And so on.

Well. That must be lovely to deal with.  My future dating profile could read "Woman available for relationship - excellent cook, loves art and outdoor activities.  Skills include invalidating feelings and placing blame."

Not only do I more or less tell him that he shouldn't feel the way he does about this or that, I also am so amazingly contrary with him about almost everything, and I'm not like that with most people.  Doesn't matter what he says, I typically respond with "Hmm no, because x."  Or questions, pointing out something false, irrational or illogical.  Just plain not agreeing with him.  Reviewing what we talked about this past weekend, most anything my husband brought up to talk about was met with me wondering if the opposite were true.  Even if it was just his opinion on say, a movie.

I'm aware that alcoholics and addicts have a "victim" perspective (my husband's favorite phrase of late is "No one's a victim but you.").  I'm aware that feeding this is potentially harmful, as it can further them down their shame/self-loathing/pity spiral and into even more dangerous territory.  It is easy for me to see how it could be the disease making him feel so miserable - not his job, not the city we live in, not any of that stuff.  And I am constantly on the lookout, perhaps subconsciously trying to convince him that nope, he's just an alcoholic.

But I also know that negating feelings is cruel, painful and at some point emotionally abusive, especially when done consistently and in an intimate relationship.  Not honoring or even plain acknowledging that someone feels a certain way says, "You don't feel this way.  You are wrong for feeling this way.  Your feelings and YOU are not safe with me.  Your feelings do not matter.   They do not exist.  You do not matter.  You do not exist."

A couple months ago, someone told me that my husband has the right to think, believe, and feel whatever and however he wants.  That I do not and cannot have the power to control it, no matter how much I fight.  That I need to accept what is and decide not to react to it.

Uh, WHAT?!

But -!

Wha-!

Ugh!

And almost a month later I realize, yup.  That's right.  How often have I felt a certain way after he has said something rude, and he has refused to apologize because he didn't do anything wrong?  How hurt have I felt for not being validated, and how often did I repeat myself like a broken record because I didn't feel heard?  I know all too well how this feels, and whether or not I think his feelings are justified, it's not fair for me to dismiss them.

So this is what I am working on right now - being more conscious of my own behaviors, my own thinking.  To stop taking his inventory and start working on my own.  The upside of this?  There are all kinds of wonderful things mixed in there with the not so great.

And when I go digging, maybe I'll find something helpful that can change me for the better - whether it's an asset, or a defect.