100 words a day

Friday morning. Now, now, he tells me he is going away for the holiday weekend, up north. Till Monday.

(In fairness, he has mentioned this before, but only now is it confirmed. The night before, we were meant to hook up, but somehow it just never happened.)

‘Lovely,’ I Skype.

‘Dear oh dear. Sigh,’ he replies.

Lunchtime, he calls. The conversation is tense, short. Early evening, just before setting off, he calls again. This time, I am barking monosyllables.

‘Just go, if you’re going,’ I say. I slam the phone down. It rings again, almost immediately. I don’t pick up.

Most of the knowledge I’ve acquired in my life has come two ways; the school of hard knocks or written down somewhere.  I’ve either learned the lessons living them out or read them in a book, on a bathroom wall or on someone’s bumper sticker.

First-hand experiences come when least expected and have immediate impact.  Reading something means it sinks in slowly over time.  Both ways add to my wisdom account and have their share of both heartache and joy.

On a chocolate wrapper last night I read “Simply be, rather than do, for a moment.”  Now to live it.

May 30, 2009. I have a sterling silver cake knife engraved with today’s date, and my name linked with someone else’s. The knife will go unused. We are no longer planning our lives together.

Vows to myself:

I promise to follow my gut.
I promise to trust my closest circle.
I promise make sure that I get everything I need.
I promise forgive others and myself.
I promise to choose life.
I promise to be grateful.
I promise to respect and love myself.
I promise give love freely.
I promise to be open to love when it finds me again.

The most lovely, sun-dappled evening of the year so far. I am walking to the bus stop that will take me to a train that will take me to my boy. I have been offered some work. My hair has been cut. I have had lunch with a friend.

Someone has emailed a joke. (Freelancers get paid per word, per article, per-haps.) I am in expansive mood. I love the red shoes of the woman walking ahead of me, and tell her so. She looks worried, mumbles a thank you.

In England, you do not compliment strangers on their footwear.

He leans in close, his lips inches from my ear and tells me what he wants to do to me.  He apologizes for being crass which I find funny because propositions like these are not often accompanied by an apology.  I’ve had a couple (maybe more) and find it disarming.  

It doesn’t matter that I just met him and will never see him again.
It doesn’t matter that I’m in a foreign country.
It doesn’t matter that I’m sharing a hotel room with two other people.   

Alas, cooler heads prevail: my friends step in and respond with a resolute No.

Monday morning, and I am still in my pajamas at 11am.

This wouldn’t be a problem, but the guy is delivering my online grocery order, and the sight of me in nightwear is not going to be a pretty one.

He’s due between 11 and 1pm, so what are the odds of him turning up at 11.06? Pretty good, in fact …

‘I’m not feeling well,’ I say.

He delivers my stuff, and I swear he leaves a little more quickly than usual.

OK, I think, when he’s gone. I may as well not bother getting dressed all day now.

Thrilled to be home yesterday, after four days away (which involved a huge argument with my sister while visiting to meet her newborn son, followed by a cab ride which had me slamming into the plexiglass partition over and over again, and wondering why there was an $8 Visa card from AT&T in the mail), I unlock the front door and look into the kitchen.

The familiar yellow walls, the deck chair I left in the kitchen three weeks ago, and an unusual noise.  I scream and slam the door.

Because there was a pigeon flapping crazily around in there.

It’s Monday afternoon. For 13 weeks now, I have been signing on as ‘unemployed’, for my National Insurance contributions. The brain-dead teenager calls me to my interview.

‘Ms England?’

Don’t these people realise I have a first name?

He wants to know about my job plan, my job goals. I tell him invent some, that he should write down whatever he wants. He gives me a sheet of paper. He blinks as I throw it in the bin. I walk away in exasperation.

‘You didn’t bin it, you filed it,’ chuckles the more helpful man downstairs. I like this guy.

I’ve been out of Rehabland for one month and the changes in my life are too many to list, but I’m going to try anyway.  I no longer have the address I’ve had for 21 years.  There are more places I can’t spend the night than I’m welcome.  Admitting addiction is a huge employment liability.  Most “friends” from treatment have relapsed. 

I’m sadder now than I was when drunk, but at least I know why.  Everyone is somehow dysfunctional; I just got “caught.”  I get rid of resentments quickly and I no longer judge.

I am grateful.  I am sober…today.

Hopefully the nice weather gets me out of the apartment more often and away from the tv.

Because these people are starting to annoy me.

I can’t stand Rachael Ray calling sandwiches “sammies” and all of her other annoying “Rachael-isms”.  Giada just has so many teeth and her on again/off again Italian accent is distracting.  When asked about weekend plans, Martha always says how many plans she has but they rarely involve other people, so what’s she bragging about.

Then I remember, they aren’t my friends.  I don’t have to take it.  There’s a button to make them go away.

In the high-tech world my children (and most of the rest of the population) live in, I’m the guy trying to master “pong” while talking on his “bag phone.”

I’m current and keenly aware of most things going on in the universe, but knowing things and actually applying or using them are two distinct things.

Texting for instance baffles me.  When I worked as a professional-type journalist I had my own short-hand code, but only I could decipher it.  Everyone today understands texting; but me.

Today I learned LMIRL – Let’s Meet In Real Life.  Actual human contact is an option?

I am now one of the desperate who have joined Match.com.  Yes, I’m now PAYING MONEY to find love.  How pathetic.

And yet my reasoning is sound.  Because I’m living in an area where the gay to straight ratio is like 1 to 1000, I can’t exactly openly flirt with my bank teller without the repercussions, can I?  He’ll most likely be straight or married or closeted.

So, that leaves me with sites like Craigslist or Gay.com where a drive-by f**k is what’s on the main agenda.  Yeah, I’ve tried conversing with those guys and “hot pix, boi” gets old.

I watch out for the postman, ducking down under the window each morning so he can’t see me, still in my pajamas as high noon approaches.

I have this other thing I do, too. I watch the mail come half way through my letter box, and then I like to grab it. The postman can’t understand why the mail won’t go through the door. I like to sit there for a while, playing tug of war.

I think I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. When you’re up against it, you get your kicks as best you can

Three weeks have passed since I left Rehabland.  Treatment time crawled in slow-motion; micro-focusing on every aspect of my feelings, addiction and plans for recovery.  The past 21 days have been the opposite; broad overviews of the future and big picture talk.

No matter how the clock appears to tick, there’s still only 24 hours each day and 1,440 minutes is not enough for me.  I’m a self-contained traveler who now has a few more tools in his backpack and I’m anxious to put them to use.

“But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

Hey Micky, oh Micky, you’re so fine.

You’re so fine you blow my mind. 
I am at a Saturday night party away from home when the hit comes on. 
Immediately, it is 1981, and I am at school. A guy called Jimmy serves breakfast. I see his greasy hair and glasses. 
Hey Jimmy, oh Jimmy, you don’t understand.

I take you by the heart, you give me cold toast in my hand.

It’s guys like you, Jimmy

Who make me want to puke, Jimmy. 
I stand still on the dancefloor, the party happening around me, a pre-teen schoolgirl once again.

In the webcam, I can see she has had her hair done. Looks good, I say. She smiles. I only saw her and Dad a few days ago, yet I need to go to their place this weekend. To escape my flat, to not be alone. To be looked after. 

It makes me want to cry, because, of course, she says, I can go there whenever I like.  I will go, and it will be lovely. But I also know that, one day, I won’t be going over there any more. 

I hang up quickly. 

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

A wise voice from my past told me every person has a compelling story to tell if only the listener would truly listen.  This same voice also told me if I listened well and asked the right questions, I would have rare opportunities to learn fascinating things and make one-of-a-kind friendships.

I listen well, ask sincerely and have been allowed in places and times not everyone gets to go.  On a long flight a few days ago I had the remarkable pleasure of meeting and hearing someone extraordinary; a humble bush pilot.  He also flies in dangerous places for us.

I originally left Dixie March 11 for the Windy City to see my sick father, some friends and scout out work possibilities.  Instead I argued with family, hid out from my friends and took the extended stay option at Rehabland.Fifty-eight days later I headed down South to see my two children, their Mome, my two dogs, the rabbit and 16 years of stuff I’ve accumulated.

I’ve spent the last 88 hours trying (and succeeding kind of) to reconnect with my kids and sorting through the past while planning a future.

I’m a Yankee again.  A damned one for sure.

The day I predicted I’d be laid off, I wrote a list of things to do upon being laid off, before leaving the office for good.

After “return blackberry”, was “email Chris.”

Chris was a former coworker I had enjoyed working with before he left to start his own firm.

Packing my office after being laid off, I emailed Chris to let him know I was available and interested.

We stayed in touch off and on over the last couple of months and two weeks ago, Chris emailed to say he was getting busy and in need of some help.

It’s my week to submit a piece to my writing group.

Only two days before its due I sit down to write.

I write two paragraphs and decide I must call my mother.

I write three more and remember I have to request a vegetarian meal for my next flight.  I review the meal options on the website: Asian Vegetarian, Bland, Kosher, Muslim, Seafood, or Vegetarian (non-dairy). These options make me laugh.

I write two more paragraphs then call a friend to describe said meal options.

By Saturday night I’ve written only a couple of pages.  And I’m damned proud.

There is really only one day on the calendar.  Mother’s Day.  Your Mom is all that.  Your Mother is everything even if she wasn’t anything.  Your Mom deserves your absolute best.

My father told me once (and to paraphrase at best) “all women in the world are tramps – except for your Mother – she’s a saint.”  Those words have stuck by me.  More than any words he ever said. 

My Mom died a few years ago.  She was sick and hurting and we didn’t get along.  I think about her all the time.

Call your Mom, go visit, let her know.

I see a self-portrait, with depictions of a twelve year old boy’s thoughts in the background.  There’s the obligatory Star Wars character, complete with lightsaber. But lurking in the frame are darker images: a guillotine, and an assassination, the bullet’s path passing through the target’s head — and the boy’s, as well.

Initially, I am shocked, disturbed.  Thoughts of Columbine and Virginia Tech leap to mind.

Then I think back thirty years to my TRS-80 computer, and my animation of a guillotine in action, part of an assignment for A Tale of Two Cities.

Is my concern groundless, or valid?

Six days a week.  7-9 hours a day.  10-15 miles a day.

That has been my life for the last year or so.  I’m overworked and often overwrought.  I’m physically and mentally exhausted.  My emotions have taken a turn for the bipolar.

I’ve been pleading for some sort of vacation so that I could just get a breather, but what I’ve been told over and over again is, “a TE is low on the totem pole and therefore is going to be denied vacation requests more than the regulars.”

Enter pulled groin muscle.

Enter possible one month off.

Enter breather.

One of my favorite bits of wisdom I keep toward the front of my brain reminds me “there is great disorder under heaven and the situation is excellent.”  A bit of a paradox for some, but for me and my life, it makes perfect sense.  There is only one thing in its place right now.  I’m not drunk.

I am living like a gypsy; a man of means by no means.  I own lots of “stuff” but can’t touch it.  I have family I can’t hold and work to do that must wait.

Disorder will suit me just fine… forever.

There’s a great deal of wisdom in most 12-step programs.  The steps are a good way to live one’s life regardless whether you have a substance abuse problem or not.  Honesty, humility, fearlessness and willingness are qualities most people want or need more of.

Personally, I replaced those wonderful qualities with selfishness, greed and resentment.  

We’re born honest, humble, willing and without fear.  Look at any child.  We learn over time to manipulate, deceive and harbor grudges.

Those days are over.  I’m looking up to my children with awe.  I can learn from and teach them at the same time.

I thought it was going to be a routine kind of thing.  I was wrong.

After feeling a tight pain in my inner-thigh yesterday, I was advised to see one of the Postal-appointed doctors.

I arrived and after some paperwork was finally let into the exam room.

The Joan Cusack look-alike doctor went through the motions, scribbled things down and professionally complimented me on how fit I am, then asked me to “lower [my] pants”.

“Oh, uh…I’m not wearing underwear.”

“That’s alright. They would’ve had to come off anyway.”

I inwardly clench up and unzip, thinking, “Thank God I manscaped!”

The break-up was temporary.  It only lasted 2.5 days.  During that time he ran into an ex who actually had cheated on him.  I didn’t know that had happened, and it explained his trust issues.  I think it also made him realize that I’m not her.  Whew.

We just returned from a week-long trip to Thailand.  It was full of adventure:  snorkeling, white water rafting, parasailing, and zip-lining as well bowling, target shooting, shopping and bar-hopping.  Just as nice was holding hands in public and giving each other kisses on the street.  It was fun to be a normal couple.

Writing in small print on a large roll of toilet paper on both sides would not provide me adequate space to abbreviate all the mistakes I’ve made.  In short, my list of screw-ups is long.

Equally long is the list of things I missed out on.

Our daughter went to her first prom this weekend.  I was a thousand miles north.  Another miss.  This time however, I was sober. 

She told me, “The girls all wore long dresses and up-dos.”  She added, “I wore a short dress and my hair long and wild.”

That’s my daughter.  My spirit was there.

After looking at countless photos of smiling children I’ve never met, I interrupt the show and ask if I can see a picture of the photographer’s brother.  It’s been well over a decade since I’ve last seen him and I don’t know if I’d recognize the guy.

Without a thought he says sure, clicks a couple buttons, and there he appears on the screen.

I’m not often speechless.

He notices the silence and waits.  I try to gather my wits and the only thing I can articulate is the only thing I’m thinking.

“Your brother looks just like my brother.”

Rehabland is a memory now that I’m back in your world.  My 30 day stay was cut short by two days; my counselor didn’t listen, passing wrong information to members of my RST (recovery support team) and I wouldn’t buy the goods being sold.  Still, the help I received is priceless.

During my 28-days in front of an unforgiving mirror I learned three cold-hard truths.  I have a thousands drunks left in me.  I have zero sober tickets left.  I am loved and cared for more than I realize.

April Fool’s Day was the last time I drank.  Appropriate date.

I haven’t lost an ounce since my post about trying to lose weight.  It’s actually gone in the other direction, so I’m taking a closer look at why.

I bought a cute new journal to get back to writing down everything I eat.  This true-confession of calories consumed explains it all.  I also gave in and bought some new, bigger clothes when I realized that about 9” of my hanging closet inventory still fits.

Then I remembered what I’ve been telling people for years:  Wanting to lose weight is NOT the same as trying to lose weight. 

Time to try.