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Did it really sneak up from out of nowhere when it pounced on me with all its weight? Or on some familiar level was my penchant for denial masking the obvious?  The telltale signs, which began several months ago were all there.  Lying down on the bed in order to zip up the size eight jeans that I later retired, searching Amazon for one or two sizes larger, ignoring the discomfort of deep ridges being carved into my skin by bras, which were suddenly shrinking in the wash. And the biggest hint of all: My refusal to drag the scale back out, after that dark day when no matter where I placed it on the floor, it showed a five lb. weight gain.

 Five years ago, when my daughter in law gifted me with a Fitbit, it opened the door to a few years of unrelenting successes. Through exercise, and charting my calorie intake, then comparing it to calories burned, I managed to shed forty-five lbs.; I walked 5 days a week, mostly inside my home because it was during the height of covid, tried to remain under 1,300 calories a day, and paid close attention to the weekly reports Fitbit provided in my email. It even monitored my sleep patterns. I finally had a system, not a person, holding me accountable. And for about 4 years it worked for me.

So, what happened? Here I am, standing in front of a full-length mirror, examining the shock-wave revelation that an amassed fifteen to twenty lbs. has bestowed on me, wondering how I got here, and how to fix it?

The fact that I am finally acknowledging it, limits those options that I’ve proven don’t work. Can’t embrace it. Can’t deny it.

Why, I wonder, have I never been able to apply what I’ve learned in my AA Twelve Step Program to my weight problem? Stored in the vault of my recovery is an enormous toolbox that not only keeps me sober but has given me a blueprint for living.  Simple sayings like One day at a time, keep it simple, let go and let God, Progress not perfection, it works if you work it. Love that last one.

Then, of course, there are the principals:

Admitting the problem and accepting it.

Setting a goal but not planning the outcome.

Self-honesty.

And the biggie, sharing my concerns with a trusted friend or group.

Lots to ponder here.

 On reflecting, my mind goes back to my dreaded relationship with the scale. And the role it played in my denial, and currently into my slip. In the beginning, I refused to get on it until I felt sure I would like what I saw.  I based my imagined loss on how my clothes fit. I was so afraid that if it were a disappointing read out, I would give up. That mindset has been a constant throughout this life-long battle. Then once the lbs. began to drop and I liked what I saw, I made friends with the scale. Until, that is, when it registered a gain, and I quickly booted the burden of proof. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Wrong.

I got back on the horse a couple of weeks ago. I’m once again exercising five days a week, and monitoring calories. Have even shared my dilemma with a couple of friends and am remaining cognizant of the tools I have at my disposal.

But the scale is still hiding in my pantry. Wish me luck.

(A marriage made in hell)

 When the call came, I could feel myself being plummeted back into the throes of scathing memories. Recollections purchased at the expense of myself and my three sons’ victimization at the hands of my ex-husband, Louie. An onslaught of buried pain was suddenly being projected onto the silver screen of my hard-earned recovery.

Louie had passed, and not one of us could manage to shed a tear. All I could think of in that one split-second, was did he take our legacy of damage with him? Or would it forever remain, solely to be triggered by elusive recollections that continue to haunt me? Forgive me, God, for not being grief-stricken

Paging back thru time, the ruffled chapters threatened my resuscitated serenity. It is utterly amazing, how much the mind can store. Even, after decades, it is capable of bringing back to the surface the storms of the past.

I could almost touch the deafening silence that accosted us from behind that familiar fixed glacial stare. A foul stench of disdain oozed through pinch-contorted lips and a clenched jaw. The abuse vacillated between that, and angry, earsplitting outbursts that could shred what little peace and quiet we may have salvaged on those rare days when he wasn’t erupting; those days he was either getting his way or absent.

This was the volatile environment that smothered me and my children for almost 22 years. This was our normal. And I’d be damned if I were going spill phony tears at the revelation of his passing.

I managed to escape that incarceration over 35 years ago but scathed and splintered. Myself and my three sons still carry those emotional scars. At the time of the divorce, the two oldest, Jake and Dylan were already gone, each jumping at the chance to proclaim their emancipation at the young ages of eighteen and nineteen.

 Jake, the oldest, was the primary target of his dad’s vehemence. And from the early age of fifteen, was already spiraling down the kinked, warped path of alcoholism. And Dylan, who had impregnated his girlfriend and married her at nineteen, left, what should have been a family nest, emotionally damaged and unprepared for life. Both, struck out on their own, not having a clue as to what it meant to be part of a healthy family unit. 

Andy, the youngest, was the only one left at home. At thirteen, although he had been subjected to uglier scenarios, he also benefited from living five additional years in a home where fireworks were not a nightly occurrence: A birthright his brothers had been denied.

One might ask, what does this narrative about abuse have to do with a blog focused on addiction and recovery? In my case, they shared the same stage. Abuse and addiction are often intertwined. A common saying in twelve-step programs is that alcoholism is but a symptom of a deeper problem. And that problem is usually comprised of innumerable characteristics that evolve, due to the influence of drugs and alcohol. Many of those traits begin to develop way before the addict or alcoholic actually picks up. Growing up in an alcoholic home for instance contributes to a variety of evolving personality traits that later on in life might make alcohol look like an attractive escape from reality. In my case, when I started drinking at fifteen, I stopped growing emotionally. Full of insecurities, low self -esteem and a variety of other negative impressions I managed to accumulate living in an alcoholic home, I decided that my dad’s solution, which was to simply escape, seemed to work for him, so I began to see alcohol as an RX for my own problems.

The disease manifested itself over a period of years, in increments of despair, feelings of hopelessness, fear, and self-loathing. Unable to face life on life’s terms, as my situation continued to worsen, so did my consumption. I was spiraling down the rabbit hole, looking for solutions that never materialized.

When Louie criticized Jake at every opportunity, in front of others, I took a drink and told myself tomorrow would be different. When he accused me of infidelity, I took another drink. When he banged my head up against the wall and choked me, I drained the bottle. And when tomorrow came, nothing changed:  Imagine that.

Alcohol had diminished, if it ever existed, my ability to deal with reality. I had absolutely no skills, as long as I was under the influence, to change either my situation or myself. Until I put down the drink, dove into recovery, and followed the things suggested in my twelve-step program, I didn’t see the connection between my problems and alcohol.

Today, I no longer believe that tomorrow will be better, or that change will somehow miraculously occur by escaping down that rabbit hole. Solutions require action. Actions based on a clear head, and a workbench full of recovery tools.

(Lessons Learned)

God willing, next month, I will celebrate 35 years sober. Some days, it seems like a lifetime ago when I wandered haphazardly into recovery. Yet, at other times, it looms as vividly as yesterday’s familiarities. Most of us, sooner or later, ponder what exactly is our purpose in life?  Along that same line of questioning, I have been wondering what lessons I have learned in sobriety. So, I have attempted to list them. They are in no particular order, and not one carries more weight than the ones that precede or follow it. Like most lessons, many have been learned, forgotten, and relearned. As good alcoholics, one of our unredeemable characteristics is that we are remedial learners.

1. How to laugh:  In my using days, most of my laughter was either forced or faked so I wouldn’t look stupid when everyone else was having fun. But, today, in sobriety, every deep belly laugh reflects a relaxed persona that, when divorced from ego, is able to recognize, enjoy, and even exude humor.

2.  When not to laugh:  Never at the expense of others or at anything that I find insulting. I no longer have to fit in by exhibiting those kinds of behaviors.

3.  How to cry:  Instead of ramming uncomfortable feelings back down the pipeline by turning the spigot off, I have discovered that if allowed to surface, tears become an important tributary that empties into an ocean of release.

4.  How to listen:  Getting out of my own head when another is sharing, worrying about how I am going to respond, or blocking out their message based on my biases or opinions, prevents me from learning. An open mind and heart are the best hearing- aids in the world. And they don’t cost a dime.

5.  How to avoid self-pity:   When wrapped in the familiarity of my own personal problems, I am blinded by what is going on right under my nose. The joys and sorrows of friends and loved ones go unnoticed. No room in my life for anything, or anyone, when I monopolize centerstage. But, if I can bow out for a brief period of time and allow the curtain to fall on me, my eyes and ears suddenly become attuned to the needs of others. And when that leads to extending a helping hand or providing a shoulder to cry on, or simply sharing in their celebration, my paltry problems begin to recede.

6.  When to think:   Something, someplace, or someone, triggers the thought of having a drink. Instead of romanticizing it or focusing on the fun times before alcohol turned on me, thinking through the drink by considering the consequences, and remembering what drove me to the rooms of AA in the first place usually stops me in my tracks. So, putting on that thinking cap is a valuable lesson.

7.  When not to think:  We alcoholics tend to overanalyze everything. Why this, why that, should I, shouldn’t I? And if not, why not? Often this monkey-minding is an excuse to either avoid or dispute something we need to accept. I can make up a litany of excuses for not working out., not making an apology, or sluffing off a variety of obligations. By the same token, I can convince myself that I should do the opposite of what I know I need to do in a given situation. Removing the thinking cap that now resembles a dunce cap enables me to just do it, or accept it, whatever it is. I can re -rout the mania by giving it a much-needed vacation.

8.  How to smile:  An easy one:  Plug into some positivity, synchronize it to the rhythm of my heart, and turn up the corners of my mouth. Pretty simple.

9.  How and when to give: Keeping my own jellybean jar full is a must. I can’t give away what I don’t have. So, replenishing my own supply by stocking up on meetings and surrounding myself with people and places that produce good vibes allows me to be of service to others. Honing my skills to recognize a need can best be improved when I take the cotton out of my ears and truly listen to what might be a cry for help.

10.  When to receive: In my family, giving and receiving were always a game of tit for tat. If someone gives you something, not only were you obligated to return the favor, but often, it became a game of one-upmanship. The psychology behind this response was two-fold. There was the fear that we would be seen as tight or unappreciative. Or, we would be indebted to that person forever. It wasn’t until someone suggested that I was robbing that person of the joy of giving. Aha, a unique perspective.

11.  How to set boundaries:    This one takes practice, practice, practice. And the slips are numerous. If you happen to be a people pleaser, like most of us in recovery, it is an ongoing tutorial, and we are tested routinely. I had to learn to trust my own decisions, to like who I was becoming, and to understand the meaning of the phrase to thine own self be true, before I tasted even a morel of success. My favorite definition of boundaries is how far I allow another into my space.

12.  When to set limits:  How far am I willing to insert myself into the problems of friends and family members? My tape measure here is can I be of help, is it any of my business, and is it taking a toll on my own sobriety? All tough questions, especially when it comes to those I care about. Guided by what I have learned about ego seems to be a good barometer for me. Am I playing God, and what are my motives? Will my arduous meddling put their problems to bed and relieve me of my worries? Or am I concerned about how their problem reflects on me? I’m not always sure when my efforts need to end and when it is time to turn it over to God. But I have learned to stop, access, and peruse the index in my lesson plans.

13.  When to let go? Refer to the above.

14.  When, how, and why to accept? When and how, again, refer to the above. Why? To give me a break.

The lessons are too numerous to calculate. So, I will close with my three significant imperatives.

15.  How to pray:  Praying is a very personal exercise. For some, it is a carefully executed ritual steeped in sacred tradition. On bended knees and bowed heads, there are those who are only comfortable when poised in supplication. For others, the rote prayers repeated in Churches and schools that we attended as children are the answer. But for me, being spiritually connected means that I have a friend in God. A friend who not only protects me but who understands me, warts and all. So, I have all kinds of conversations with him. At night, I reference the standard prayers that I learned growing up. In the morning and throughout the day, I throw some at him that I learned in recovery, as well as a number of general blessings and requests for the health and well-being of friends and family. Some conversations are specific, while others are generalizations. I bring him an array of concerns and observations. But they are always gift wrapped in a collage of gratitude. The bottom line is that there is no right or wrong way to pray. The approach that I adopted in recovery works for me. And it works for God also.

16.  How to meditate: Meditation requires silence. And I don’t mean the silencing of noise in a physical environment. Meditation requires a state of listening that enables God’s messages to penetrate my being. I may never get this exactly right because it entails clearing my mind of all the busyness that is constantly erupting in my mind. There are a variety of tools readily available to assist in this discipline, but I have a long way to go. So, until then, I will ensure that my ears and heart are open to the vibes being sent my way.

17.  How to obtain serenity:  Serenity has always been my goal in sobriety. And in recovery, I have experienced that pure sense of calm many times. It usually visits me when I am sheltered in the moment. When I am astutely aware of what is happening around me, not focused on what was or what will be. Nature usually provides the backdrop. It can be anything from working in my garden to listening to the rain ricochet off the garbage lids to musing over the variety of birds sharing the seed in the feeder or by tuning into Youtube to access the baby videos. The opportunities that comprise serenity are never-ending. I’ve found it in something as simple as a steaming cup of coffee, a good workout, or a job well done. And appreciation and gratitude are the two threads that weave these precious moments together

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It would be impossible for me to list all of the lessons learned in 35 years of sobriety; my seventy-nine-year-old memory isn’t capable of retrieving that many. But hopefully, this summary will give you an idea of just how enlightening recovery can be