No Diagnosis Will Ever Change Me

When I went into rehab almost a year ago, I was a hot mess.  I was coming off of alcohol and pills, and so naturally, the detox process was brutal.  I had been in the hospital the prior week detoxing, because benzos and alcohol are extremely dangerous to come off of, and I had already had a seizure, so they weren't taking any chances.

So as I left detox and arrived at the inpatient facility, I felt an excruciating headache, and almost like I had the flu, but I assumed it was from detoxing.  I kept waiting and waiting and waiting to feel better.  And somewhere in all that waiting, I began to lose feeling in my feet, and in my hands.  They often felt numb, or hot and tingly.  Sometimes my feet were so numb that I'd stare at them and feel all weird and think they weren't mine.  I don't know how to describe it, but it was unreal.

I knew what I was feeling was NOT normal, yet I had no idea what was happening.  I was still experiencing EXCRUCIATING migraines that never, not even once, subsided during the time I was inpatient.  It was so hard to go to groups and classes because my head hurt so bad I could hardly hold it up.  My whole body tremored.  Eventually, with all of this happening, I went to an insta care twice, and even to the ER.  I just didn't know how to handle or bear anymore of what was going on.

I prayed and prayed a lot to my Heavenly Father to help me understand what was happening with me so that I could, in turn, help myself - or at least get help for myself.  And then finally, an answer: the doctor who helped me in the ER suggested I go see a neurologist because of my numb hands and feet and horrible migraines.

And there, my neurologist diagnosed me with Alcoholic Neuropathy.  This diagnosis was not what I wanted, and I will have to deal with it for the rest of my life, BUT, at least I had an answer.  I now knew why my hands and feet hurt so badly, and even why my head did.  I was started on a course of medication to help with nerve damage, along with a slew of B vitamins.

Like I said, it's been nearly a year since all of this happened.  I look back on it, and I have mixed emotions: on one hand, I wish that I had felt physically better, because I wonder how much more awesome and beneficial treatment could have been could I have physically been there 100%.  Almost every waking minute I was there, I was consumed with pain and desperation.  But, it taught me a lot - that extreme physical hardship: it taught me that SERIOUSLY, I can endure anything.  I can endure horrible pain and I can still grow and thrive at the same time, because believe me, I did absolutely that while in rehab.  Pain does not mean that life has to be dark and hopeless.  I made some of the best friends I'll ever make in my life.  I learned how to open up and share my story.  I laughed and I cried and I flourished - and I did this all with extreme pain.

On the day I was leaving inpatient, my therapist shared something with me.  I don't remember even close what his exact words were, but he wanted me to know that I could still have an incredible life, even with the pain ahead.  He told me to not let that pain define me.  He reminded me that I am a bad ass woman warrior and that no diagnosis will ever change that.  And then he told me to go live my life - a good life.  Full and happy and hard and worth it.

I have listened to his words.  I have not spoken of my Alcoholic Neuropathy until now, because I don't want everyone to think of it when they think of me.  So, why bring it up now?  Mostly because part of what I believe is my story to share, is that there is the reality of all of us in addiction having to live with permanent physical problems that arose directly because of our addictions. Another reason to share is because I have all this crap to deal with, but despite all of it, I am still happy.  I am still so, so grateful to be clean and sober today.  I might deal with some pain from time to time, but it doesn't stop me from trying my best to live a good and honest life.

So, you know, Alcoholic Neuropathy can suck it, because I'm not about to let it bring me down.  My addiction did that for far too long, and I have so, so much living to do.

{96 days clean}

The Words I Learned to Say

We loving living with this mountain literally across the street!

I learned a lot of things in rehab that include but are not limited to: making a mean barbecued chicken, (thank you, C!) how to pierce your ears with just a safety pin and some gumption, having the courage and vulnerability required to share my story with 20 or so other women, laughing at myself - hell, laughing AT ALL, and sleeping through the night with bright lights a blazin' because my roommate insisted.

One of the most lasting lessons I learned from rehab, though, was speaking the 3 little words I had a hard time saying while in the darkest throes of my drug and alcohol addiction: I love you.  It was so hard to say those words.  I don't know why, because I loved my husband and my children in my addiction, but I wasn't loving them enough.  Or in the right way, maybe.  I loved them but I kept them at arm's length - or maybe an entire football field - away from me.  And, it is hard to properly love someone when you do not love yourself.

In rehab, hearing I love you was an often occurrence.  At first I was sort of aghast and horrified.  Why did everyone love each other so much!? And why did everyone have to keep saying it?? I didn't get it.  I, frankly, felt embarrassed for everyone there displaying such acts of egregious humiliation - actually loving someone? The horror!

But then, my stubborn, black lil heart began to thaw.  And as I let my guard down and started working my program, I began to click with the other women and staff there, and those 3 little words that so horrified me at the beginning of my stay began to seem mighty pretty.  So, quite simply, I began to say I love you.

South Mountain

Once I started using those 3 words, I went all the way, man, and never looked back.  My roommate leaving to go to the bathroom? No problem, I just holler I LOVE YOU HAVE A GOOD BATHROOM BREAK SEE YOU WHEN YOU GET BACK!!!!!  Someone leaving on a day pass and will be gone for 4 hours? I LOVE YOU REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE AND WHERE YOU CAME FROM DON'T USE I LOVE YOUUUUUUU!  Pass a therapist in the hallway? HI! I LOVE YOU! (Here's to you, T, the therapist that fully taught me to use these 3 words!)

And, I became more settled, I think, and happy.  And every time I used those 3 words, I got those 3 words back in return.  And it felt really good.

So, when I left rehab, I was used to those 3 little words.  Problem was, most of the world wasn't.  I remember, very shortly upon getting out of rehab, I met 3 of my sisters for lunch.  When we all met, I tried - somewhat unsuccessfully - to hug them all, haha.  And as I left, I told them all I love them, and it was weird, because it wasn't something we really did.  But I keep persisting, and now, almost a year later, I think we all say I love you just a little more often.

I have *almost* no problem giving and receiving love now.  I tell my kids I love them no less than a trillion times a day.  And maybe some people think that using that word often sometimes diminishes love or tarnishes it in some way, but I am not a believer of that.  I say that love gets stronger when you vocalize it.  So, use your voice.  Say those 3 words.  We all need a little more love in this world, and I promise - learning to use those 3 words has changed my life.

MIla drew this picture of us yesterday...erm...anyone see what's funny about it? ;)

{95 days clean}

I'm One Of the Lucky Ones

Me, today

You know, I don't know a lot of things.  I don't know why I am able to stay clean when many people with addiction don't make it - they either go to an early grave, or they live and live and LIVE with the addiction chained to them.  I don't know why, really, I have been one of the lucky ones.  I know for certain, though, that I could never do this on my own.  I give it all to God.  Every moment of sobriety has not happened because I'm especially strong or different of special, but because God has given me strength far above what I will ever have.  Those moments I drive to the liquor store and cry in the parking lot, a massive war going on inside of me, debating on whether I go in or not all while I clutch the wheel and wish I had never let myself take that first drink at all, and in those moments, God intervenes.  He speaks to me softly, and He helps me leave that parking lot.  I still marvel that I did not drink.  I give it all to God, and I feel overwhelming gratitude.

The past several months of my life have been weird, mostly because they have been beautiful beyond measure, but also horribly difficult.  We have moved into a beautiful new home in the city we have been dying to move to.  My kids are beautiful and bright, and most importantly, happy.  Brandon is doing well in his job and feels motivated and invested.  And then there's me.  Sort of meandering around, wondering where I belong and where I can fit so that I can bloom and grow.  I'm sort of at a point in my life where I have lots of free time to fill.  I don't have any young babies anymore, so suddenly I have... time.  Time!  I've been a mother for nearly 12 years, and time is something I have never had.  Anddddd...I don't know what to do with it.  I clean my house, but the by time I get it all clean, I find that I STILL simply have empty hours ahead.  There is seriously only so many times you can vacuum your kitchen floor in a day...

Mila won the star student award at school and Row is particularly excited about it!

But, in all of this free time that sometimes feels agonizing, there are two things I am grateful for:  first, that I am staying clean, no matter the difficulties I face.  In AA many of us talk about not knowing what to DO with all the hours of the day, because most of drank our way through them.  I am also hopeful about this idea of free time because it means that I get to spend time re-exploring my greatest passion: writing.  I'm going to revive this 'ol blog and see what happens.  I don't know what will.  I just know that when I am writing my heart rate slows, my hands stop shaking, and I don't think about drinking or the difficulties in life.  There is a quiet stillness that my heart yearns for.  I may not be a famous writer or even be particularly a good one, but it makes my heart sing, and that's good enough.

So, I'm sober and I"m struggling but I'm also writing and living.  I'll take it.

My climbing kiddos

{94 days clean}

I’m slowly starting to trust that I won’t, like, die if I put on my vulnerability pants.

hi.

It’s been five or so months since I last posted. I’m not sure wny I stopped posting; after all I’m sort of known as a successful blogger, if you will.  I’m not afraid so much about sharing this vulnerable moments of my life; I truly believe that one of my callings in life is to share my imperfections and vulnerabilities from the diseases of alcoholism, eating disorders, drugs, and any other addictions.

It is only in the last couple of weeks that the ground feels more solid around my feet, and I’m slowly starting to trust that I won’t, like, die if I put on my vulnerability pants.

So, I hope you’ll join me on this journey of sobriety, and more than that -- living.  I will be vulnerable in future posts, because I believe the true way to end the stigma of addiction and mental illness requires us to stand up and be brave and show everyone that we are imperfect, but we are also resilient and loving and even broken.  But many something that is broken can be fixed. Changed a little bit, but no less beautiful.

Let’s talk about the broken, mended, and beautiful bad asses we are.

Step 3 In Action, Yo

Having 114 (by the time I go to bed tonight; God willing) days clean and sober under my belt has been incredible.  I would actually say that the last two months that I’ve been out of rehab have been maybe the most challenging, like, EVER, and that’s saying a whole lot if you were to watch The Train Wreck of Brie’s Life on film. (It’d be a Blockbuster!) In the last 8 weeks, I have been given and am trying to figure out how to manage a new diagnosis, I lost my horse and all 4 of my cats due to a life-threatening, completely serious and dangerous asthmatic allergy I got while in rehab... (not the niftiest going away gift I’ve ever gotten...) and I have been devastated.  I’m normally a total keeper-inner (stuffing feelings is fun!) but with my animals, I CAN’T SUPPRESS, AND IT’S THE WORST.  At the drop of a hat, day or night, alone or with some I assume really nice people at the grocery store, I will hardcore start dropping some tears and some sobs.  I literally can’t stop.  And every night I have nightmares about them not being okay.  And, I know they are being well-cared for.  But my dreaming brain has always been a little dramatic, and definitely hasn’t gotten the memo that they’re okay.  We also moved to a completely new city - the kids are in new schools, we’re in a new house and neighborhood.  We love it, and it was a good change, but it is still stressful.

But, I’m sober.  I am as dry as a bone, baby.

And I’m grateful to my Higher Power (who I believe is my Heavenly Father).

I’m only sober because of Him and his miracles, and I’ll tell you why.

So, I’m not finished working the steps yet, (on 6) but I have studied them all, know off the top of my head which is which, etc.  Most of them are pretty terrific and liberating to take and make your own, though 4, 5, and 9 are about as appealing as hair on soap, so there’s that.  The step though that I’m the most fascinated with (currently) is Step 3.  It is just my favorite.  It is a step that we alcoholics and addicts MUST live every day - every second and minute of it, because it is the step that will keep us sober.  Step 3 isn’t easy, though.  It’s easy to say you’re going to do it, but ACTUALLY doing it is a whole other thing, and putting it into action is scarier than going down a rollercoaster with no seatbelt on - you just hold on for dear life, and hope you come through.  Step 3 is:

“Made a decision to turn your will and your life over to the care of God as you understood him”

Give God my will?  Sure, most people think, easy.

But, no.  Just, NO.

IT IS NOT EASY.

Because we humans are kinda selfish and slow little buggers, and giving God our will?  Putting our entire lives in His hands?  Giving Him OUR entire lives? Super NOT easy peasy.

So, I believe that God kinda has everything, right?  (Except maybe the IPhone X, but I BET if He wanted it, He could have it!). When we pray, there is nothing we could ever give Him that He doesn’t have, or that He needs.  So when we are constantly on our knees, whining about all of our selfish and petty little issues that are trying to make us drink again...or what, maybe that’s just me... and when we constantly ask Him for help, or guidance, or a miracle, or hope, or faith, or for an IPhone X.... He gives us of these things freely, and with Perfect Love.  Because, as stated above, there isn’t anything we could ever give Him in return for all He gives us.

Except...

There’s kinda one thing: we can give Him our will.  That is the ONLY thing we have that He wants and NEEDS.  We can make a decision to be a vessel for Him.  We can decide to spread love and light wherever we go.  We can say in our prayers every morning, Heavenly Father, I give you my will.  Help me do good and right today so I may bless the lives of others.”

Giving your Higher Power your will isn’t just about words.  It’s about action, too, which is SO MUCH OH MY GOSH HARDER.  Every day, to give my Heavenly Father my will, I read in my scriptures.  I pray to him, about the petty and the scary and the devastating and the hope and the love.  I have cleaned up my language.  I try to smile at people, and not be so grouchy all the time.  I try to keep my heart attuned to any whisperings His Spirit might give me to help others or myself.

I have been reading my scriptures daily and saying my prayers and all that jazz every day since I went into rehab.  Some days I groaned (like LITERALLY groaned out loud like a petulant little child) when I had to open my scriptures or, like, be a nice person or stay sober.  But, in praying to have the strength and the grace to give my will to God, these things become a little easier, day by day.  Not swearing like an inmate (as my therapist in rehab so eloquently put it) makes me feel BETTER.  I try to help others.  I try to smile.  To be kind.  Because, those are all things in this life that I would love to have in return.

In giving God your will, and in DOING the actions required to have your will in God’s hands, something remarkable happens: (well, a buncha cool things happen, but I’m only going to focus on one) you become FORTIFIED.  You have strength that you have never had before.  Because doing your dailies, worshipping or giving time to your Higher Power every day; praying, meditating... all of these things are GOOD AND RIGHT and all of these things make you stronger.

I had a superhuman moment 3 days ago.  And by superhuman, I mean, that I was able to display and HAVE strength that I KNOW was not my own.  It was Heavenly Father, blessing me with strength and safety, as I become an instrument of His will and give Him my own.

On Wednesday, I was in a crappy mood.  I had been in Provo (butt-far away!) all morning at my orthopedic surgeon WITH my 4 year old.  I was about as thrilled as my kids are when I put kale in ANYTHING.  The drive home was long, and Rowan was mad at me and making demands.  Construction on the freeway, a fight with my husband on the phone.  As I got off the freeway at our exit to get home, I was SO angry in that moment.  I was SO anxious.  I was SO devastated.  I was way too many bad “SO’s” and my brain was FREAKING OUT.  I drove straight through the intersection, where, if I had turned left, would have landed me at the liquor store in about a block. As I drove through the intersection, this is a very close assimilation of what was happening in my brain:

THAT WAS THE LIQUOR STORE TURN-OFF YOU LOSER TURN AROUND NOW—but, um, I am, like, trying not to drink?—WELL YOU’RE NOT TRYING ANYMORE, SUCKA, TURN AROUND—but, um, okay.  I’m turning.  I’m-are we sure about this—WE ARE SO SURE LIFE IS THE WORST AND YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE AN ALCOHOLIC AGAIN.  YOU’RE JUST GOING TO DRINK ONE GLASS OF MALBEC.  THIS GLASS WILL BE THE APPROXIMATE SIZE OF AN URN, BUT YOU’LL JUST DRINK ONE.  AND IF YOU HAPPEN TO KEEP DRINKING, YOU WON’T BE AN ALCOHOLIC ANYMORE.  YOU CAN CONTROL YOURSELF—Okay, we’re here, but I’m thinking we should leave—SHUTUP, YA BUCKET OF JUNK.  GO GET THE DAMN WINE—

And literally, as all of this is happening in my mind, I was sitting in the parking lot of the liquor store where I had been dozens, hundreds of times.  Remembering pretending not to be drunk as I paid for more liquor.  Hoping the cashier didn’t remember the 4 bottles I’d bought the day before yesterday, and the 4 more in my basket.  I remembered not making eye contact, and being furtive in the store.  I remember the high of knowing I was about to be able to drink again.  I remember the shame, and the fear, and the self-loathing.  And I’m sitting in my running car, gripping the steering wheel.  Crying now, whether it be because I want a drink so damn bad, or because I’m so close to losing my sobriety, I’m not even sure.  The Angry Drunk Self-Destructive Brie is screaming for an urn of Malbec, and the quiet, small, Sober Brie is getting hard to hear. 

I don’t know what to do.

I am scared.

I don’t even know what I want, in that moment.

And then, out of nowhere, I had this feeling come over me: it was complete peace, which, trust me, was NOT a feeling I was remotely even feeling just a second ago.  The peaceful feeling told me to back out of my parking spot and to go home.  I suddenly had some very loud and very clear and very calm words in my head, that had made Angry Drunk Self-Destructive Brie disappear with a poof (at least, in that moment).  And that voice told me that I didn’t want to drink.  That I, in fact, felt REVULSION at being in this parking lot, and in almost losing 111 days sober, and having to start over at 1.  The thought of Malbec, in an urn or otherwise, didn’t sound good anymore.  I wanted to haul ass out of that parking lot.  I wanted to get as far away from alcohol as I could manage.

Why, suddenly, did the thought of alcohol not only sound NOT appealing anymore, but actually sickening?  Why, 2 minutes ago, was Angry Drunk Self-Destructive Brie’s inner diatribe so loud and convincing, when suddenly her argument and even her presence became moot?

HOW THE HELL HAD I JUST STAYED SOBER?  Really and truly?  How could a raging alcoholic with just 111 days under her belt feel revulsion at not just her drink of choice, but also have the power and the drive and the ABILITY to leave the liquor store WITHOUT ALCOHOL??

I’ll tell you how: she couldn’t have done it.  Me, Brie, Sober Brie, alone, could not have gotten out of that parking lot sans alcohol on her own.  No way no how.  My Heavenly Father got me out of that parking lot sans alcohol.  Because that morning, I had given Him my will.  And because He had it, He was able to get me out of that parking lot, because His will for me wasn’t, nor will it ever be, to return to alcoholism, or even just have that one last glass of Malbec.

And, that was a miracle.  Such a beautiful, tender, miracle.

So, when you are working Step 3 (addict or alcoholic or not, EVERY HUMAN should give their will to God!) and you are reticent on giving your Higher Power your will, understand that it isn’t going to be lame or boring, living a life attuned-to and with God.  Understand that it is going to save your life.  That it is going to make you a better and stronger version of yourself than you ever imagined.  That it isn’t going to make your life boring, but without bounds.  Limitless.  New.  Astonishing.  Miraculous.

I am a grateful recovering alcoholic with 114 hard-worked for days under my belt.  And I have all of those days because of my Higher Power.  For making me strong when I was at my weakest.  For protecting me from my ugly, evil, and vile addiction.

That is everything.

And I am so, so grateful.

“The will of God will never take you where the Grace of God cannot protect you.”

—Bernadette Devlin 

Actual Photos Of Me Doing the Mental Gymnastics Required to Manage My Life:

I’m Not Okay, and You’re Not Okay, and That’s Okay

Since when is it not okay to be not okay?

We live in a culture of “transparency” - we plaster our lives on social media; perfect snippets of a life that isn’t perfect at all.  In all of this “transparency” we are also perpetuating a lie - that life can be perfect - because look at mine!  It’s of course natural to want to put our best face forward - but when that is all that the world sees, we all have a very big problem.  We are only transparent with perceived perfection or prestige, and so really, all of this transparency is muddy and unclear and really not transparent at all, and we are almost always not really seeing the truth of things - whether that truth be beautiful or ugly.

All of this is a huge reason I eventually decided to author Sober and So Brie after my therapist asked me to - I certainly don’t revel or even find it easy to be open and vulnerable, and if you knew me in real life you’d probably be shocked I was the author of SASB, because I am quite closed-off in real life - I am friendly, but I am not open — however, for whatever reason, I am quite good at not being okay, and I’m REALLY good at being impulsive and coming up with scary solutions, so why not document it all here?  Because I WANT TRUTH WHETHER IT BE BEAUTIFUL OR UGLY, for myself, and from others. To show the world, to show you, to remind myself on hard days - that there is hope and that there is no shame in addiction.  You’ll almost always find Totally-Fake-But-Still-Totally-Annoying Perfection on social platforms online, and then you amble on over here, and you find...this...me...a total train-wreck.  And if anything, maybe you’ll leave this website not understanding me, and you could hardcore be judging me, but at least knowing that there is someone else out in the world who is honest about how hard the world is, and who doesn’t always ge
t it right the first or the forty-first time, but still trying.  And maybe it is only a consolation prize - and a cheesy one at that - but to still be trying, after all this time, is a good and a right thing.

Because, I’m not okay all of the time - and I need that not okay-ness to be totally okay.  I need to feel secure in the knowledge that I might feel like I got hit by a truck full of hot garbage juice, but that I don’t need to drive to the liquor store straightaway.  I need to believe that I can handle the emotions and the despair of it all (LIVING) stone-cold sober, even if I don’t want to. I need to know that even if I don’t feel okay, I AM okay.

Social media drives me batty.  I follow more meme accounts on instagram than actual humans, because I’m much more interested in laughing than I am in getting perfect-only peeks into other’s lives.  Life is so messy and so chaotic - I am so messy and so chaotic - and perfection doesn’t interest me.  I spent too long striving for it, and that longing and that need almost killed me.

For the 90 days I’ve been clean, I’ve been wildily excited and thrilled and also wildly despairing - I have had moments of clarity and beauty and also more than a few moments I white-knuckled through to keep from grabbing my keys and breaking speeding laws to get to the liquor store.  And in all of that - even all of the ugly and the difficult and the embarrassing and shameful, I am certain of maybe one thing, and one thing alone: that I am sober.  And that I am so fudging glad I am. I am not certain at all that my problems are lighter or simpler, and I am certainly not guaranteed my sobriety past the current moment, but I am so sober, and even in my pain, I am so glad that I am.  Because while there was certainly a time when I could have (and probably should have) died in my addiction, I know that today I will not.

So I’ll continue to be transparently imperfect.  To acknowledge and even be frank at how much I've messed up: I have hurt many people, most of whom I love dearly.  I have lost relationships because of this.  I have lost my horse.  My dignity, my integrity.  My health.  Some of this can be reclaimed, and some of it can’t, but I’ll always be transparent as I document the journey on SASB.  I’m a hot mess, I’m a spaz, I wash my hair like once a week and do it about once a month, but I’m trying, and I’m still sober.  I think, at least, that I have the important things covered.  I’m not okay a lot of the time, and it hurts so, so much.

But it’s okay.
I’m okay.
We’re all okay.

I’m going to be writing a few blog posts to introduce myself, as I realized many readers may not know me past a few surface things, here or there.  If you have any questions or things in particular you’d like to know, leave me a comment or shoot me an email, and I’ll do my best to work it into my post.

I Have So Much Left

I think that a tremendous part of my addiction (eating disorder and alcoholism) stemmed from the fact that nothing is fair.  I lost my daughter, Kendall, to a stillbirth, and it wasn’t fair, and I was SO MAD, and I knew that nothing could ever bring her back, no matter how much I tried to fix myself or punish myself, so why not drink myself to death?  I was entitled to this, because of my righteous indignation: LIFE SUCKS BALLS AND IT ISN’T FAIR.

But the problem is, life doesn’t ever stop being not fair.  Not even three years ago, I had a miscarriage, and just like that, my baby girl, McCartney, was gone.  My arms and my heart were empty. I raged and I raged at God and myself and the universe.  When were things going to even out?  (Yeah, kind of like never.)

Life will be FULL of disappointments, sorrows, fear, and grief.  What happened to me, though, was that amidst all of my own disappointments, sorrows, fear, and grief, I became so consumed by it all, that I forgot to see that my life also contained joy, and humor, and love, and hope.  I was so desperately searching for a respite from the storm raging around me at the bottom of a bottle or at a lower number on the scale, that I didn’t see that the respite I was so desperately searching for was all around me, in little ways and in little moments: when my son did a school project on me, because I am his hero.  When I see that my daughter’s sparkly, down-turned, and lovely eyes are my own.  When I hear I love you more times in a single day than I deserve.

And so my life wasn’t fair, and so I continued to starve myself.  To drink.  To swallow pills to fall asleep and numb the fact that I was even ALIVE.  When life got fair, I would stop.  I would.

But really, I wouln’t have.  And I couldn’t have.  My addiction had its sharp and terrible claws deeply rooted in me.

When I went to rehab, all of the terrible things in my life that had happened to me didn’t go away, or morph into something prettier.  I still have my sorrows and my anger, and life, as always, wasn’t fair. The only thing that had changed in my life was that I was clean and sober - but just that - just keeping my body clean from the substances that poisoned my mind and my body...I got clarity.  I could see the hope and the beauty all around me, even amidst the ugly thorns in my life.  I stopped expecting life to be fair, and instead adjusted my point of view to pray for acceptance, surrender, and hope, to forgive myself for the past and to let go of it, and to endure whatever lay ahead of me.

And let me tell you: since I have been out of rehab for the last six or so weeks, I have absolutely had to endure.  Maybe more than I ever thought I could: I lost my horse - my mare who taught me that I could be brave and strong and powerful and bad-ass.  I have lost (and will continue to do so) much of my physical capabilities by being diagnosed with Alcoholic Neuropathy.  I am in so much pain every day, and I feel so bereft, being only a shadow of who I used to be.  Very soon I will be losing all four of my cats.  Because the acute asthma I suffer from has catapulted to insane levels, and is becoming resistant to treatment.  My cats are killing me. Literally.  And knowing I will lose them makes me so frantic and desperate that I cannot dwell on it long.  And, we are losing our home - we are moving.  It is so difficult to stay sober in the home that I spent most of the last few years in drunk, high, pathetic, miserable, and self-seeking.

So much loss.  So much taken away from me.  And I am bewildered and frightened and mourning.

In the past, this would have been excellent ammo to justify my addiction, and I would have wallowed in the loss and grief and not-okayness of it all.  But I can’t do tha

t anymore.  Not if I want to live.  So,  I have stopped expecting life to be fair.  I instead only try as hard as I can to be brave and strong while I endure all of the unfair storms in my life.  I no longer want to be defined in this world by everything that I have lost, but by everything that I fight for.  And I am in the fight for my life.  And it is messy and beautiful and WORTH IT. (You are, too.)

“Oh, my friend.  It is not what they take away from you that counts, it’s what you do with what you have left.”

—Hubert H. Humphrey

I have so much left.  I have three beautiful children, and I have a husband who loves me and tries just as hard as I do to make himself better and to be a good and right force in this world.  I have an amazing family Who doggedly love me, even through the decades of anguish and worry and frustration I put them through.  I have new beginnings and second chances.  I still have my blind pup who is my permanent sidekick and offers his love an protection through his stalwart little affinity for me.  I have my Higher Power - my God in Heaven - who loves me and believes in me, even though He kind of created a hot mess.

And it’s funny.  Amidst the howling wind and the angry storm that the adversary throws at me, despite the endless tears and sometimes the dark, heavy blanket of depression, I still love this damn life.  Sometimes I’m kind of amazed that this Jaded Ice Queen does - but it’s true.  I just do.  I just love this life.  Because amidst the storm and the wind and the darkness, I live in the most beautiful garden - a garden that blooms and flourishes because of the love and prayers and forgiveness given me.  It is a paradise.  A beautiful, dazzling, paradise. 

Life isn’t fair.  And it isn’t for the faint of heart.  But it is beautiful and the grace we get in this world to be better and do better is this most precious gift.  And while this life isn’t always fair, we must remember that the grace, the forgiveness, the second chances, and the uncomplicated and Perfect Love WE get time and again in this life aren’t fair either - we rally don’t deserve it.  But we get them anyway.

Do not forget to see the beauty and grace amidst the unfair and the ugly.  It is quieter, and it is harder to find, but if you look, you will see it everywhere.

“I like living.  I have sometimes been wildly despairing, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.”

The Round Isn't Over Yet and Neither Are You

Been a weird week; I've kind of had my crazy pants on.  I am still proudly clean and sober, but I feel directionless and very, very afraid most of the time.  I am clinging to the Big Book, or prayer, and my dailies, because I know that no matter how crazy my pants are, I can have the willpower and presence of mind to stay sober, even when the bottle calls.

It's so weird to me that people can drink.  Like, normally.  I see someone order a glass of wine with dinner, and I am fascinated that they can drink only one.  Or even two.  I still get a hitch in my breath and my heart accelerates when I'm near the liquor store I used to frequent, or if I see an ad for liquor, or, okay, if someone even says "wine".  They can even be saying "Ugh, stop your whining," and I'll be all "WINING DID SOMEONE SAY WINING HI HI I LIKE WINE" and half (or more) of me is like YOU TOTALLY WANT THE WINE YOU CAN TOTALLY DRINK NORMALLY OR HELL EVEN JUST DRINK ONE AND THEN STOP AGAIN NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO CHANGE YOUR SOBRIETY DATE--

--and then there's the Sober Brie who's like, feet shuffling, Um, Brain?  Hi.  Can I um, say something?  Really fast?  And like, really quietly because I know you have a migraine and I don't want to bug you.  But, um, maybe you shouldn't screech into the liquor store parking lot right now or wine.  But, you can totally whine, don't get me wrong -- But, like maybe this decision isn't based rationally, and you can hate everyone in the world who can normally drink liquor - I think that's fair.  It's like, pry five or six billion people and I really don't think that's hating too much.  So, ahem.  Yeah.  I mean, like, yay!  We're sober!  And okay, I know we're not happy.  And even though we don't feel okay, we ARE okay.  So, like, wine is good but wine will kill you so maybe we should, like, NOT.  Okay, wow.  Thanks for letting me talk!  You may now resume your whining.

So far, my cute little Sober Brain that's all shy and new is the voice I am choosing to listen to - at least, in the end, because I'm here, 76 days later, as dry as whatever that saying is that means I'm totally sober. Usually I yell at and curse my sober brain, but the wealth and depth of creativity my mind has when it comes to profanity is both cool and kind of sad AND SHOULD BE KEPT SECRET.

I know that one glass of wine won't kill me.  But with me, one can never be just one.  And I do not want to have another seizure, or more permanent medical complications from alcoholism.  I do not want the depth and despair that comes from being so out of control I don't know how I can bear to brave another minute alive (or at least conscious).  I never want to feel how SHITTY it is to hear your children downstairs, growing up without you, while you languish upstairs in your drinking and self-pity.  So, is my current day-to-day kind of excruciating at times?  Yes.  But will I take this shitty over the shitty I endured in my addiction?  Oh, hell yes.  A RESOUNDING YES.

I can't ever have another glass of wine.  I can't ever go into a liquor store again, because while you peruse the tequila section, trying to find the brand that won't break the bank but will also impress your friends and also not have you make bad choices that weekend, (free fact fer ya: tequila will ALWAYS end in vomit and regret) in all of those glass bottles - the clear ones, and blue ones, and green ones: in them I found liquid courage.  I found liquid appeasement.  I found liquid apathy, and liquid living-but-not-really-living.  Liquid Thank-God-I-Don't-Remember-Anything-Right-Now and Liquid I-Can't-Remember-Anything-That-Just-Happened-and-I'm-Terrified.  Liquid I-Hate-Myself, Liquid Regret.  Liquid Prison, a kind of death.  I gulped and slugged my way through bottle after bottle, peering into the bottom to see if I had finally found what I was looking for: hope.  Peace.  Respite.  

I didn't find any of those things.

I found: horror.  Pain.  Rejection.

Life is such a wrestle - it is a FIGHT to have a life of meaning and peace and even some joy - and it is WORTH THE WRESTLE.  (Even if you're the worst at arm wrestles.).  Keep fighting.  Keep your head up.  Just stand, before the count of 10.  The round isn't over yet, and neither are you.  And neither am I.

So yeah, I've been wearing some super crazy pants.  I've been chaotic and distracted and sort of all over the place, which really isn't crazy pants for me so much as normal pants - but, even I have perhaps carried all of that to a new level.  But it's okay.  I'm okay.  (Mostly because I'm still sober and I have a really patient support system.)

Because there's always a new tomorrow, there's always a new wrestle worth wrestling at the beginning of each day.  Life can totally be shitty, I know - but please remember that in your addiction, the shit was SO REAL and SO, SO RANK, guys.  Don't go back there.

I will not search for hope, peace, or respite at the bottom of an empty bottle again.  I will fall to my knees in prayer, I will TRY to meditate, (that awesomeness be hella hard) I will call my sponsor, or a sober friend, or my mom, or hell I'll have a giant love-fest with all four of my cats and my blind dog and I'll STAY FREAKING SOBER doing all of this, even though there is nothing even REMOTELY super sad about a 33 year old woman who has sleepovers with her old and blind and diseased animals that involve pillow fights and a great game of Truth or Dare.  (The blind dog never chooses dare.)

I know that life will quiet down.  The normal pants will be washed (but not folded, because let's get real, I don't have that kind of energy) and returned to my closet, and one of these mornings, I'll put them on.  Maybe one day, I will pass the liquor store without putting myself into a hypertensive state.  Maybe, just a little bit more often, I'll find the hope, peace, and respite that I am yearning for.  

All of this is worth the fight.  Crazy pants, normal pants, or no pants.  We got this.

Leaping Into Recovery Like

...hella awkward.

But it's okay.  I'm an awkward person; just look at me!  5'11" and my legs alone are 37".  Finding a store that actually sells jeans long enough for me is about as easy as me strolling into the Louvre, perusing the paintings, pointing to the "Mona Lisa," and saying, I'll take that one.  How much do I owe you?

I stumble over my words and when I'm the center of attention I get crazily self-conscious and try to shorten my sentences so I can stop talking more quickly, but in the process make my sentences even longer because I'm stumbling EVEN MORE over my words and then I need to apologize for the word stumblage, and then have to re-phrase (and likely apologize again) and stumble over my apology, which makes, oh I don't know, a simple few sentences that should have taken maybe 14 seconds to say be more like 14 minutes.  Agonizingly long.  Kind of like this paragraph.

Butit'sfineI'mfinewe'reallfine.  ;)

If I have to leap into recovery looking....well, looking like I do in this picture...then I'll do it.  I'd prefer to do it with a bit more grace, but grace hasn't ever been my strongest quality.  Or like, anything I remotely possess (ask my 3rd grade ballet teacher...).  All around me, I see my beautiful brothers and sisters in recovery killin' their sobriety with grace.  They're agile, and nimble, and if they were to be substituted in the picture of me posted here, they'd pry look...I don't know.  I was trying to come up with some really poignant adjective, but honestly... they'd pry just look normal.  And not, you know, like a gawky giraffe who got peer pressured into skydiving and has just leapt out of the plane.  So for all you beshes who are bummed that you're "just" normal, it could be worse.  Gawky Skydiving Giraffe worse.

You know what though?  I'd rather be taking the most uncoordinated, unrefined leap into recovery than to not take that leap at all.  Because after the leap comes the calm.  After the leap, you begin to gain self-respect, gratitude, and humility.  After taking the hardest leap of your life, you realize how freaking brave and just cool you are.  All human beings are pretty cool, (except like Hitler 'n stuff) but I'll tell you what - I know that us addicts are some of the strongest, bravest, bad-ass-est, (I just made that a word) resilient, and loving people out there.  Whether you're addicted to a substance you use a needle for, or whether you're addicted to cutting, or shame, or looking in the mirror and hating what you see...please know - KNOW - that there is a way out of this garbage.  There is a different, beautiful path available for you.  It isn't easy, and it does require that (normal or gawky giraffe-ish) leap of faith, but that leap is worth it.  You may not be ready to take that leap yet, and that's okay.  But please remember that you are worth that leap, and that I need you, your family needs you, THE WORLD NEEDS YOU - and that in your recovery - full of vulnerability and imperfection and scars - we will all see the fudging awesome warrior beneath that.  We recovering alcoholics and addicts are the strongest warriors out there - we are an army - a cussing, smoking, tattooed, pierced, wise-cracking, joke-cracking army -- and we will fight for you.  And for each other.  And for ourselves.  And to those that try to stop us, hurt us, or do so to another in recovery, they better be ready for some hell and like a beat down.  (Or, with me, since I really can't throw too hard a punch, I will BRING YOU DOWN with some vicious rhetoric.  ;)  With words, I will always win.)  You DEF want a recovering alcoholic on your side in a bar fight.  Trust me on this.

Point is, we are an army, and we are getting bigger and bigger at an exponential rate.  We all had to take that leap of faith.  We were all scared as hell.  We all stumbled along the way:

Oh boy.  The Gawky Giraffe stumbles.  Really, are we surprised?  And who the hell photographed this anyway?  (This was about a decade ago, when we all carried around these weird things called cameras, and cell phones simply made and received calls.  We also had to hunt for food and make fire with like string and friction and I did all of my writing on cave walls.  It was barbaric.)

So, stumble.  Okay?  JUST STUMBLE.  And know that it's absolutely okay.  Addict or not, you won't ever do this life perfectly.  You may project that on social media, or to your circle of friends, but you are not helping anyone - including yourself - by doing this.  The world NEEDS to see your imperfections so that they know that it's okay that they're imperfect, or making mistakes too.  The world NEEDS to see those of us in recovery, or fighting like hell to WANT to be in recovery, that we're doing this - we're fighting and we're stumbling and we're taking that leap of faith into recovery, and we're all doing it messily and imperfectly and sort of blundering along.  But we're laughing.  We're breathing easier.  And we have each other.  We aren't alone anymore.

I could have found a million images online of an awkward stranger taking a leap, or someone else tripping.  I thought about it.  Do I really want the whole world seeing me taking a leap of faith while my face really looks like I'm passing a kidney stone the size of a Suburban?  And then, even WORSE, the whole world seeing my ARSE?  I mean, no, not really.  But I gotta be real.  And those pictures are so, so painfully real.  My sobriety and my recovery is full of bumps and barriers, but it is REAL.  I overcome one obstacle, only to find another in my path, this one bigger and meaner.  I cry.  Like all the time.  But I also laugh.  Like all the time.  In my addiction, I neither laughed or cried, because when you're high (or black out drunk) you can't feel anything REAL.  And so I attack each obstacle, and through it all, I am laughing, or crying, or sometimes both at once.

I want REAL.  Even if real is messy and complicated and stumbly (made that word up too) and Gawky Giraffey.  Even if, even if.  Because life is also like this most precious gift.  It's beautiful and wondrous and breathtaking.  Leaping into recovery is scary.  Risky.  Taking that leap is terrifying. TERRIFYING. But that's kinda the point.  Leaping is terrifying, recovery is terrifying, living is terrifying.  But it is also alluring, astonishing, awe-inspiring.  (Alliteration: 3 points!)  Be brave, be terrified, but take that leap anyway.  And we'll all be here to cheer you on and greet you with pure elation (and probably some really bad profanity) on the other side.

To all of the alcoholics, addicts, or flawed human beings out there: shine on you crazy, nerdy weirdos.  Y'all are my people.

Let's go shine on.  The world needs us.

It Can Be Mine, and Yours, and it Can Be For Forever

60 days! It's my birthday, throw a party!

Earlier this week, I got my 60 day chip at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.  My dear friend and fellow grateful recovering alcoholic warrior sista,  Jenna, came along to celebrate my new "birthday" with me.  As far as "birthdays" go in AA, I'm a total fetus - only 60 days clean vs. say, the 12,045 days this old grandma has been alive!

But, I'll tell you something: I am fiercely proud of these 60 days.  Because these 60 days have been JUST RIGHT and JUST AS THEY SHOULD BE.  That isn't to say they've been easy, or even pleasant.  60 heartbreaking days separated from my children.  60 days of floundering and fear.  Working the 12 Steps.  Looking in the mirror and meeting myself for the first time in a very, very long time.  60 days of getting real with myself and with all of my wrongs.  Dropping the monstrous pride.  Discovering my Higher Power.  Learning (and then, finally) enjoying to pray.  Smiling more.  Actually being nice. At some point saying you're happy you're clean and sober, and finally not be lying through gritted teeth.  Getting real in therapy and doing some hardcore ugly crying.  Finally embracing the ugly crying, because, let's be honest, it feels so damn good.  Building friendships. Rebuilding your relationship with the love of your life.
Connecting with other addicts and alcoholics who have done reprehensible things, but loving them and learning from them because they love and accept you in all of your reprehensible-ness, too. Thanking God for putting these beautiful, hilarious, silly, conquering women in my life who have become my new heroes, and my new best friends.  (But, um, confesh: not like I had ANY friends in my addiction...)

60 days free from alcohol: cunning, baffling, powerful.

Alcohol, you're the worst

60 days of discovery: of myself, my Higher Power, my freaking awesome life and my freaking weird quirks and oddities.  (Oh boy.)

60 days of sorrow, absolutely.
60 days of forgiving and making amends.
Of fear, and finally, finally, FAITH.

Just 60 days.  2 months.  Such a short time.  Negligible, really.
BUT.
60 days toward the rest of my life.  And THAT ain't negligible.

So you see, 60 days has felt like forever, because I have done so much living - so much more than I have done in a very, very long time.  The living has been chaotic, hard as hell, messy and imperfect but MINE - and LIVING this life, not merely inhabiting it, like I did in my addiction.  I was a passive spectator, watching with glazed eyes and a hard heart and a jaded soul I refused to even turn on all of the life and vitality and beauty and heart break and wonder pass right before me, day after day after day.  Alcohol.  Oh, it is cunning, baffling, powerful.  Also sucky.

I never believed that the 60 days I've just had could be mine.  Yet it is here, and I am in it - the star of this 60 days of mine.  And of my forever, if I choose.

I am clean and I am sober.  I am messy.  I am sort of all over the place.  I am still trying to find my place and my role in my new sober forever.  I am a little lost.  But I'm here.  Present.  Trying.  Honest.  Sincere.

60 proud days and a whole lotta more to come, figuring out how to stay dopeless, but still dope as hell.  (I'm so punny - for real, I worked on that one for awhile...)

I know there is suffering.  You are.  I am.  This world is wearying.  Please know that peace and power and brave bad-assery can be yours.  Start today.  Stop being a spectator in your life, and become the star.  It is yours, waiting, and you will be so great.  I know it.  C'mon.  Day one, right now, toward the rest of this incredibly imperfect and beautiful and maddening forever that is so, so worth it.  Let's do this together: living, messing up, getting back up, doing better, supporting, carrying, rejoicing.  I'm here.  And I will wait for you to stand up and start living, with me.  Please, I need you.  We need each other.  We can't do this alone.  And may God bless you, and keep you, until we see each other, whether we are 60 minutes clean or 60 days clean or 60 years clean.  It can be mine, and yours, and it can be for forever.

And that makes me so very, very glad.