Ramblings of an Inquisitive Mind

If

If my depth frightens you,

Don’t dive in head first.

If my openness scares you,

Don’t knock on my door.

If my darkness terrifies you,

Don’t bring your flickering candle.

If my need for peace and serenity concerns you,

Don’t enter my space.

If my ability to see your soul by looking in your eyes petrifies you,

Don’t even blink.

If my need for a connection that last from now until the end of time alarms you,

Don’t take my hand.

But if you are willing to stand strong and steadfast,

I will be there from dawn until dusk.

That Night

Like each of you, I have been overwhelmed by the events in our country this week. Everywhere we look we are inundated with the testimony of the two individuals before the Senate Judiciary Committee, and everyone is telling us who is lying and who is telling the truth. I have listened to and participated in debates on this topic with friends and coworkers. I have observed on Facebook as people who support both sides let us know how they feel. I try not to post political stuff on Facebook. I have friends and family who do, and I rarely read any of those posts. Why? Because I do not want to respond in anger and cause more damage—I think we have enough of that already.

I find it hard knowing that people in my life have different opinions than I do, but you know what? They see the world through eyes that are not mine. I have always wanted to be loved and accepted for who I am, and for that to happen, I also need to do the same for others. I might not agree with you, but THAT IS OKAY. We don’t all have to agree. We just all need to treat each other with love and kindness.

So why am I rambling on about this today? Well, I want to share a little about my life and my history. I want to relate to you things that happened to me as a young child and teenager. Not in great detail, and not to cause harm to anyone, but to tell the story of an innocent young person in this world. As most of you know, I grew up in a small Southern town in the 1960s and 70s. I graduated from high school in 1979, so I’m around the age of the two people who went before the Senate Judiciary Committee this week.

I grew up at a time when family get-togethers were a regular occurrence. Fish fries, cookouts, family reunions, cousins spending summers together. Growing up in this environment was full of fun times but also included very scary times. On more than one occasion I was touched or tickled inappropriately. I had one uncle who would tickle me and refuse to stop, even when I begged. One time after finally freeing myself, he grabbed me again. I kicked him in the shin with the pointy-toed cowgirl boots I was wearing. He doubled over in pain and let me tell you, I was proud of myself. I felt powerful. My mom and dad were not very happy with me, but I didn’t care. I made my point: Keep your hands off me. But this is just a small part of the story.

What I really want to share with you is something that happened in high school. I think the reason I’ve thought about it so much over the years is because of the powerlessness I felt at the time. I wasn’t raped, but I was touched without my consent. And I am fucking sick and tired of hearing that “boys will be boys.” I even said that to myself for years. That saying is just a way of excusing behavior that is demeaning and unwanted.

I played basketball and ran track in high school. I am so thankful I had those things because my environment at home was not good. Sports and my horses saved me in high school. My world was falling apart at home but at least I had those outlets to keep me sane. Playing sports meant riding the bus back and forth to games. We were a small school, so the cheerleaders and the girls’ and boys’ basketball teams all rode the bus together.

I was a sophomore or junior in high school and we were riding the bus home after a game. I was sitting in a seat talking with my friend when the guy sitting behind me put his hand around my seat and grabbed my breast. No matter how much I pushed him away and tried to grab his hand to get it off me, he just kept grabbing. This behavior continued the whole bus trip home. He was not my boyfriend; he was just a guy in my class. I think the thing that bothers me most was that I was too scared to do anything. I was too embarrassed to stand up for myself.

I never told anyone this story until about a month ago. I did not know what to do or even what to think, other than that guys are just guys and they do whatever they want to do. I don’t think I have ever felt so powerless. I don’t know how common that behavior is, but should we really tolerate it? I don’t have children, but if I had a daughter and this happened to her I would be furious. And I would probably be just as furious if I had a son who behaved in that manner.

So why am I sharing this now? And why didn’t I tell someone when it happened? Because I was ashamed. Because I felt like I allowed it to happen—that I was responsible for it. You know what? That is wrong, but it is what our society teaches girls and women. Our society allows boys and men to do things that are inappropriate and WRONG, and then tells the women it is our fault.

I am not trying to make this into a political statement, but if you are a woman, I hope you will take the time to look at your past and recognize if there was a time when this happened to you. I was not drunk. I was not out at some party. I was riding home on the bus after playing basketball. That was the last time I ever rode the bus home after a game. From that night forward, I always rode home with my mom and dad. I allowed some creepy guy to take away one of the fun parts of high school: riding the bus, singing and laughing with my friends.

It is scary to be in a situation where you do not have a voice and no control, and it has taken me about 40 years since that night to even tell my story. I think that night also did something else to me. It made me aware that I never wanted to feel that way again.

It is hard for me to make this next statement, but I think I must. That one night solidified my feelings about men. After that incident, whenever I imagined a man hugging me or being intimate with me, I would get furious. I decided I did not want or need that in my life. I was a strong woman and did not NEED someone to take care of me and protect me. I could and would do those things for myself. And I have.

I am not naïve enough to believe that everything that I hear is true. But when a woman reveals her long-held secrets of sexual misconduct and inappropriate touching, I understand. I believe the women. It is a new day, and finally the sun is beginning to push through the years of long-held dark secrets.

Transformation

Author’s note: I started this blog post last December but never completed it. I decided that my word for the new year would be Transformation. I repeated this word over and over in my mind for the first few month of the year but never really saw any transformation taking place. Then I watch Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette and the transformation started rumbling deep in my soul. I will mark the place where I stopped writing in December and started fresh today.

Transformation

A couple of years ago, I reconnected with a high school friend. I had tried searching for her on Facebook but hadn’t been able to track her down. I wanted to get in touch because I knew she was also a lesbian and I hoped to connect and talk about our shared high school experiences. She was a few years younger than I was but we were from a small high school, so pretty much everyone knew everyone. I had heard through some high school folks that my friend had experienced some bullying when she went off to college. I had not talked to her since I left Waynesboro so many years ago.

I did finally make contact over Facebook and I was thrilled that she accepted my friend request. We quickly caught up; I shared my blogs with her, and she informed me that she was transitioning from female to male. This did not create a problem for me—I have known several people who have transitioned. But to be honest I was a little disappointed, because we had just reconnected and I looked forward to sharing some common experiences with my long lost friend.

But the more we talked and shared, and the longer I watched him go through his transition, the more I was amazed to see this beautiful human being become the person he was meant to be. I watched as his whole expression changed and his eyes began to light up, and somehow that was all that mattered: He was becoming his true, authentic self. I was so thrilled that we had reconnected during this meaningful time of his life. It was like watching a butterfly emerge from a cocoon, once bound to the earth by its caterpillar form, never imagining that soon it would learn to fly. My friend told me he had known since he was a small child who he was meant to be, and now the time had come to be that person.

I was amazed by his bravery and his willingness to live authentically. In fact, I began to feel somewhat jealous. I struggled to figure out why I was feeling this way.

Was I transgender? I spent time talking to Lorene, Sylvia, and my therapist about it. No—that was not it. I have never felt like I was born into the wrong body. I have never been extremely feminine (whatever that is) but I have never had the feelings my friend described.

Was I angry because of the male privilege my friend would now receive? No, that did not fit either. I continued to struggle with the question for months until it finally hit me right upside my hard old head. I was watching my friend become his true, authentic self. THAT is why I was jealous. I have not allowed myself to become the true, authentic person I am meant to be. Of course, my transition is a work in progress, because I have no idea –

This is the last sentence from my December writings.

So now I feel my transformation occurring. I have realized a lot of truths about myself. I have spent a great deal of my life trying to please people—almost begging people to please love me. You might think that sounds crazy, but let me share a little of my story with you.

I grew up in a small southern town. We attended the First Baptist Church in this small town and I was very active in church activities growing up. Early in my life, I realized I was different, although I did not have the language for it at that time because I lived a pretty sheltered life. It was not until I was around 12 that I realized I might be a lesbian. At that time, I still did not have a word for it. I was just terrified that I would grow up to be like the woman in town who everyone talked about. I sat in the tub one night and prayed to God not to be that way.

I am giving you this background so you can see that my self-hatred and self-doubt started at an early age. I was not like a lot of other kids my age. I did not date or hang out with friends. I stayed home with my parents and rode horses and took care of the animals. I had no desire to run with the crowd because deep inside I knew I did not belong. I knew my parents loved me and I really enjoyed hanging out with them.

Once I went off to college and fell in love for the first time, I realized that people can be very cruel. I attended a very small Baptist college and as you can image, the rumors about me began to fly. Right from the beginning I lost people who I thought were my friends—they totally dropped me and never spoke to me again. Understand that this was a Christian college and people turned their backs very quickly.

You also need to understand my naïve thinking. I just thought, I have been this way all my life and people loved me. So why should telling them the truth about me make a big difference? Well, it did. My mother badgered me until I finally told her the truth. She asked me if I loved my girlfriend the way I loved my sister or the way she loved my daddy. I said, I guess the way that you love daddy. Man—she lost her shit. It was the only time she ever hit me. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said, You might not wake up in the morning.

It was a horrible experience, and to say it did not scar me would be a lie. Over the course of my life I have had more of these reactions from my parents. Years later, I went to them again to talk about my life and a relationship. My father looked at me and said, “What you are and what you do is wrong, and I am not accepting another damn thing.”

Now, just let me say that when the two people I loved more than life itself reacted to my truth in this manner, I was crushed. I could not believe it. I did not trust love any more. Since that time, I have never trusted anyone not to pull the rug out from under me. In fact, I expect it. I expect it so much that I sabotage my relationships. I leave the relationship first, before the other person has a chance to hurt me.

So how does this relate to transformation? Well, I am done with that type of behavior. I am done begging people to love me. I am done trying to be everything for everyone. I am done carrying around this shame. I am done trying to make others feel comfortable with my sexuality. I am done feeling like a second-class human being. I am done feeling less than.

So, to my family and friends: Thank you for loving me just the way I am. I would like to share with you a little more about what I believe. I know it can be risky to take a single verse from the Bible and use it out of context, but I am going to do that here. There is a simple verse in the Bible that expresses what I believe: “God is Love.” And that is it. That is what I believe, and I always try to live my life in this manner. This is what I choose. I choose love.

I know I might still be a little naïve, but I think that is what life is all about. There is a lot of craziness in the world right now. There is a lot of hatred, hurt, intolerance, and harm in our country. I believe we all have the responsibility to respond with love and kindness.

I am so excited to be beginning my own transformation. I am hoping to spring forth from my cocoon and show the world my beautiful new wings.

Broken

That is what I am—completely broken. I have nothing else to give, nothing else to offer. Just broken— out of order and not sure how to restore myself. My fantasy is to get rid of everything I have, buy a small RV, and just leave. Just keep going—satisfy my hobo heart and my restless soul, with nothing and no one to take care of, answer to, or be responsible for. Just go, whichever way the wind blows my soul. Isolated and alone with just me, a good dog, and the beauty of nature.

We are in the process of selling my parents’ home and property. I grew up in that house and on that land, and it is hard to part with it. I drove to Waynesboro yesterday and as I was switching between radio stations, Miranda Lambert’s song “The House That Built Me” came on the radio. I never listen to new country and I had never heard that song, but for some reason I stopped my radio surfing and listened to the song. I totally lost it as I was driving; the song spoke to so much of what I have been feeling. I am sure the process of letting go of my childhood home is responsible for some of the things I am feeling.

I am broken—I am searching for a way to and a reason to survive. Some days my goats are the only reason I stay here. I cannot leave those first three knuckleheads—Javier, Honey Bee, and Tupelo. They have healed me and saved me more than anyone will ever know. I know it seems silly to some folks, but they are what keeps me going. They give me something to look forward to.

How do I survive this emptiness? Will I survive? It seems like I have spent a large portion of my life just trying to survive and I am tired. Tired of the fight and tired of struggling.

Am I depressed? Probably, but this seems so much more intense than the depressions—the dark nights of the soul—I have survived in the past. Grief is different. It stays there, sucking every last glimmer of hope away. Depression is something I know well, something I have survived over and over again. But grief—you don’t survive it. You can’t outlive it. I am not even sure depression and grief are closely related; they seem so different to me in their intensity and duration. I would prefer to fight with my depression any day. At least I know what I am battling.

I was not ready to lose my father and then my mother. I was not ready, and I still am not ready. I still need them. I still want to talk to them, laugh with them. I still want to pull up in their driveway and know they are home—and know I am home.

Yesterday, when I walked into their house, I no longer felt them there. Of course they are not there physically, but for so long I still felt them there, in that house, when I visited it. But not now. Their spirits have moved elsewhere—hopefully into my soul. There are times when I feel them with me, but not often enough. I hope their presence will feel stronger and stronger as time passes.

I never imagined living in a world without my parents, and I don’t like living in this world now. They were my comfort. Even with all the ups and downs, they were the ones who kept me here. So often I thought about leaving this world, but I knew I could never do that to them. When I got cancer, I was so afraid that if I did not survive they would be devastated. Now I am devastated, and just trying to stay here and survive another day. Some days I don’t know why, but I just keep hoping I will begin to see my purpose.

Life is not easy; it is difficult for everyone. It is funny what life will do to you. I have always felt that love was out there—that there was a reason to focus on the positive and keep going, because good things will come. Life has sucked all of that out of me. Life is about surviving—enjoying the fleeting moments of happiness and having the strength and fortitude to weather the storms.

I have to look for some ways to remind myself that there is a reason to be here. I catch a glimpse of the sun reflecting off a bird’s wing, or a dew drop hanging from a blade of grass. I watch the dragonflies and the ladybugs. I watch the grass and trees as they begin to bud and grow, and I know that life is all around. Ever changing—I realize that one season follows another. Death follows life. Death is a part of living. I am broken, and maybe will be for the rest of my life. Maybe life will bring me answers, healing, growth, and love. Thing is—I have to stay here to find out. Damn it!

I Have No Answers

Another day. Another shooting. Another mother and father bury their child.

I have no answers—but we must find some. We cannot continue to allow the pain and devastation that we see every day in our country. Thoughts and prayers for this city . . . then another city . . . followed by even more. Thoughts and prayers???? What about ACTION? What about ANSWERS? What in the world are we allowing to happen? It is terror that we continue to allow to happen: in churches, in schools, at concerts, in clubs, in theaters. We watch. We talk. We sit idly by. Until the next one happens—and still, no answers.

I come from a small Georgia town, from a family that loves to hunt and fish. We have always had guns in our home, just for hunting. My dad was not a big hunter like his brothers, but he had a shotgun and a .22. We always knew where they were, and how dangerous they were, and we were forbidden to touch them unless he was with us.

So I understand the reasons some people have guns, and I understand the argument for the right to bear arms. I am not here to debate gun control. I will not get drawn in to an argument in which neither side will listen to the other. We must talk, to figure out a way to stop mentally ill people from purchasing and owning guns. How? I don’t know—but we must.

Again, it seems this was a young man filled with rage and hatred, like the shooter in Charleston. I wrote about that shooting and that hatred, which seemed to have no other basis than the fact that someone was different. As a young adult, I remember going to a gay club in Atlanta. The club often received bomb threats, and then one night, it happened. The club was bombed, and though no one was killed, several people were injured and many more were left with long-term effects from the trauma. These were just regular people going out to have a good time—to dance, party, and enjoy being with friends. More than 20 years later, it seems little has changed. Hatred for fellow humans who walk the same earth is slowly destroying our world.

Imagine the images that remain embedded in the minds of people who live through such terror and its aftermath. I have a close friend who was shot at her job. She was working as a store manager; at closing time a guy walked in, pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, asked for all the money, then pulled the trigger. She survived, but she says she has never been the same since the shooting. She says that every day when she walks to her car in the morning, she fears someone is out there waiting to shoot her. Imagine the life that awaits all the survivors of these massacres.

Whenever things like this happen, I start asking myself questions. I ask friends and coworkers the same questions, even though I am pretty sure what their responses will be. After the Las Vegas shooting I wondered, if a pro-gun supporter lost a spouse, child, parent, or friend in this shooting, would they change their mind about gun control? What if their gun was stolen and used in a mass shooting—would that change their mind? Everyone I asked said no. I think it is easy to answer that question when that’s all it is: a question. I imagine that if we asked the people who have experienced these scenarios, we might receive more thoughtful answers.

As I have said over and over, I do not have the answers. I know that thoughts and prayers seem meaningless without action and change. I hope Parkland, Florida will be the end of all this senseless terror—but I fear that it will not.

Love one another. Watch out for one another. Be kind. Listen to each other. And let’s find a solution.

Healing Power of Love

On December 11th of this year, I lost one of my best friends. My dear sweet companion Zipper crossed over the rainbow bridge while I held him in my arms. I had a connection with that dog that I have never had with another dog. I often hear people say that one certain dog they have owned is their heart dog. I have never really thought that way before, because all my animals are special and each one has a special place in my heart. Each time I lose one, I feel like a small piece of my heart is missing. But Zipper was different. I like to think of him as my soul dog. We connected in a way that almost made us feel as one.

I met Zipper several years ago; I believe he was about 5 years old when I met him. I was extremely interested in herding sheep and the dog I had was not interested in herding at all. That dog, an Australian Shepherd, is beautiful—and he knows it. He would just prance around the sheep with his nose in the air as if to say, Look at me! Aren’t I beautiful?

Needless to say, that is not what makes a good herding dog, so I was pretty disappointed. The woman I was taking lessons from had several dogs at the time, and told me she had a dog she would let me use if he would work for me. That dog was Zipper.

As soon as I saw him it was love at first sight. He was a tricolored Border Collie with the most beautiful golden eyes I’d ever seen—eyes that seemed to see right into my soul. I told my instructor that I loved his beautiful eyes, and she said his eyes creeped her out; she didn’t like light eyes in a border collie. I think she might not have liked his eyes because she didn’t want anyone or anything looking into her soul.

She told me Zipper was easily freaked out and that he might be too scared to work for me. She had not been very successful in getting him to work for her. She had actually considered euthanizing him because she thought he was unstable. Instead, she decided to have him neutered to see if that would help calm him down. But he just paced back and forth and was not very social. He wouldn’t walk on a leash without pulling, wouldn’t take a treat, and didn’t like to be petted, although he would stand for brushing. He really just wanted to be left alone. She wasn’t sure he would ever be able to live inside because so many things really spooked him.

So I started hanging out with this dog. I sat with him while other people worked their dogs. I gently massaged him as he stood or sat beside me. I would go over and brush him and walk him. I would throw him a treat before I left. Eventually, we decided I should take him for a few home visits. I was excited but also nervous. The first time I brought him home, I walked him up to the front door on a leash and walked inside, and he walked right in. I kept him with me for a few hours, then took him back home. The next time I picked him up for a visit, he stayed with me until he took his last breath. Zipper allowed me to love him, and I am forever grateful that this beautiful creature welcomed me into his life.

I really don’t know why he picked me, but I am so happy that he did. He let me love him, and in return he loved me back with his whole being. Zipper was an amazing herding dog. He was so talented and often took advantage of his novice handler—me. He was head and shoulders above me in talent, and he knew it. I would be in the wrong place and he would just run through the sheep because he could, and I would just smile. I loved that he was having so much fun and I loved that he was getting to do what he was born to do. I should have corrected him much more than I did, but when we were with the sheep and he looked at me, I swear he was smiling. I miss him so much. I have had such a hard time writing this because of my tears.

We were two misfits—two soulmates—misunderstood, but good as gold. We understood each other; we connected. We both needed love and we both just needed to be understood. He needed calm, patience, kindness, and support. I needed him to heal all the brokenness that was and is my life.  We healed each other with the love we shared.

I feel truly grateful and honored that I got to hold him in my arms as he took his last breath. I told him, It’s okay, Zip. I have you. That’ll do.

December 6, 2017

Thirty years ago today, I decided to get serious about my problems with drugs and alcohol. I woke up this morning with a feeling of extreme gratitude and the tossing and turning of my mind and soul that tell me I need to write. I am hopeful that my sweet editor Diane will be able to transform this jumble of emotions into a post that makes sense. I feel a need to share with you part of my journey of getting sober. This morning, thinking back over the whole experience, I realized that my Higher Power put certain people in my life long before I even dreamed of the course my life would take.

I had lunch with Diane on Monday and she asked if this week marked 30 years of sobriety. Me being who I am, I said, Yes, but I feel like I should be much further along than this. She asked, Where would you be today if you had not gotten sober? I responded that I would be dead.

That may sound overly dramatic, but I truly believe it. I see no way I could have survived this long if I had continued to live the way I was living. People sometimes say to me today, Well, it has been so long, can’t you just have a drink? What I know today is that I do not know how to have a drink. I don’t want to just have a drink; when I drink, I totally lose control.

I remember so many times reaching that perfect feeling–just enough alcohol mixed with just the right amount of drugs, and the world was wonderful. I literally felt like I was floating. But I could never just stop there. I drank until I was falling down drunk and had to be carried out of the bar by my buddies. Thank God someone cared enough about me to drive me home on some of those nights, to walk me to my door and drop me off.

In one of my recent posts I mentioned my friend Barbara, the one who first told me that in AA, they say if you are blacking out you might have a problem with alcohol. I remember the first time I met Barbara. She was in Waynesboro with a guy I knew from high school. He was gay and had moved to Augusta, and I guess that’s where the two of them met. I was working at the bank at the time and they stopped in and asked to see me. That was the start of a crazy time in my life–and also the moment I met the lifeline who would save me from those times.

At that time, there were four of us I knew who were gay or lesbian who had grown up in Waynesboro and escaped to Augusta, where we felt at least somewhat free to be who we were. We started hanging out, going to bars in Augusta and other cities nearby. Gay bars were not easy to find then, and they were not always in the best of areas. We vacationed together along with other people, spending most of that time hanging out in bars and drinking. Barbara was one of the people we all knew in common, so she was usually with us on these adventures. Today, I look back and realize that two of those guys I knew from Waynesboro died from HIV, and my friend Barbara passed away about six years ago. That is sobering in and of itself.

Anyway, getting back to getting sober. At some point during those years, Barbara stopped hanging out with us. I would see her now and then but she was not drinking. I talked to her about it and she told me she was trying to get sober. I knew about AA because I had relatives who had gotten sober in AA and were very active in the recovery community.

I reached a point where I needed a place to live, and Barbara let me move in with her. She was staying sober and she had this drunk for a roommate. This was a period of heavy drinking for me. On more than one occasion, someone would drive me home, walk me up the stairs to the apartment, and dump me on Barbara. Thank God she loved me. Thank God she didn’t throw me out into the street. She just asked me to go to meetings. She would say, I could really use some support and would like for you to go with me. She tried everything she could to get me to go to a meeting. But I continued to drink. I moved in with another friend and kept partying.

But no matter what I did or who I hung out with, I just never seemed to fit in; I never felt good enough. In Augusta at that time, there was a group of five or six women who I regarded as the cool people–the people everyone should want to hang out with. Man–did they drink!!!! I would tell other people, I know I drink a lot, but if I ever get that bad I will get some help.

Well, I finally became part of that group. We basically started drinking every Friday and didn’t stop until Sunday night. We would all go out to the bar on Friday and head back to someone’s house after the bar closed. First thing the next morning we’d drink a beer to get the weekend started. Every weekend there was a house full of people sleeping everywhere.

This group had an annual, weeklong beach trip to Jekyll Island, and that year I was invited to go. This was right around Labor Day 1987, and I was SO excited. Before the group left town, they had the living room full of cases of beer (because beer cost more at the beach) in preparation for the trip. I could only go for part of the week. I drank from the time my girlfriend picked me up all the way to the beach. I don’t remember arriving at the beach, eating supper, or anything else from that first night. I was so drunk and out of control that I remember very little of that trip. Needless to say, my girlfriend was no longer my girlfriend after that trip.

What I do remember was this: With a beer in each hand, I stumbled to one of the walkways leading to the beach. As I stood there I heard a voice deep within me say, You do not have to live this way.

I stumbled back to the room. Drank the whole ride home; got back to the apartment I shared with my roommates and drank the rest of the beer I had in my backpack, never even asking if they wanted one. Went to my room, and the next morning, I called Barbara and asked her to take me to a meeting.

I told my roommates and one of the women from the beach group that I was going to AA. They all said, We were going to talk to you about your drinking. Remember, these were the same women I was talking about when I said if I ever drank that much, I would get help. Wow–drunks telling another drunk that she’s drinking too much.

Anyway, Barbara took me to my first meeting and I stayed sober for a while. But I kept doing drugs, and it took until December 6^th for me to be honest about what I was doing. At that point, I was living with Barbara and her partner Hope. They were both sober and it was a good place for me to be. I finally told Barbara what I had been doing. She said, There is a meeting at North Augusta tonight–you need to go and pick up a chip. She and Hope were not going to the meeting, so I drove there myself.

The meeting was packed because someone was celebrating their first year of sobriety. At the end of the meeting, someone always stands up and hands out chips to mark your time in recovery. A white chip is the first one, the one you pick up if you have a desire to stop drinking and start on the road to recovery.

Like I said, the room was packed, and I thought, There is no way I’m going up in front of all these people to get another white chip. I will just get it tomorrow at the noon meeting. That’s the meeting I usually go to, and it would mean more to the people there if I picked it up then.

So they start handing out the chips, and I just stand there. Then, all of a sudden, someone pushes me from behind. I turn around and there stands Barbara. So I go pick up that damn chip in front of all those people–and it was the best decision I ever made. I am still so grateful to Barbara and to all the other people who loved me until I could begin to love myself.

November

Yesterday marked the second anniversary of my dad’s death—and in three weeks we will mark the second anniversary of my mother’s passing away. It still seems so unreal that I am existing in a world without them. You know how people always say, “Home is where the heart is”? But how can you find your home when your heart is broken into a million tiny pieces?

Before I say more, I want you to know I worry that you might think I’m just feeling sorry for myself and want some sympathy. I understand that we all suffer loss and we all go through difficult times. And that’s why I want to share my story with you. If I am feeling a little sorry for myself—well, that’s okay too. As long as I acknowledge it and don’t get stuck in it, it is okay. I have never been one to give up. I survive, I strive, I move forward. But dealing with this loss has been extremely difficult for me.

Some of the difficulty for me is because my parents were my home—my heart. My sisters both got married, had children, and formed families and holiday traditions of their own. They have their spouses and kids, and can travel and take family vacations with them. I always had mom and dad. We traveled together; I spent most of my holidays with them, and that was my tradition.

I wish I could begin to put into words the way I always felt pulling into their driveway; the peace that would pour through my heart was something I could actually feel happening as I drove down the dirt drive toward the house. Even if my parents and I were not getting along extremely well, just pulling into the drive was good for my soul.

I think a lot of those feelings came from being on that piece of property we called Spread Oak Farm. I spent most of my life there; we moved there when I was just 4 or 5. My heart and my soul feel at home on that property. The property and the animals I loved there held me close in my childhood, dried my tears, listened to my heart, and gave me the love I needed.

I loved my parents beyond measure. Did we get along all the time? No. Did we have times of estrangement? Yes. Was my mom easy to get along with? No. Was my dad perfect? No. Did they love me? Yes, the very best that they knew how. Did they give me everything I needed? Yes and no. I never lacked for food, shelter, clothing, or any material item. Then what the hell was missing? Emotional support. I will share more stories with you in the future. Today I am just trying to put the pieces of my heart back together.

This time of year is difficult anyway. All the family gatherings and all the romanticizing we see on TV and in the movies about the joys of families being together during the holidays makes things painful if you are alone. It was always good to know I was going home to see my family. Even if it was not always pleasant, at least I had a home, a family, a place.

Now that my parents are gone, I am struggling to establish my own holiday traditions. I mainly just want to pretend nothing special is going on—that it’s just another day. But the never-ending questions from friends and coworkers continually remind me that I am alone. “What you doing for Thanksgiving?” “What did you get for Christmas?” “What did you do for New Years?” Not a damn thing, is the response to all of the above. But I don’t say it. It makes people uncomfortable and the moment awkward. So I mumble some kind of lie and walk away thinking, Wow. I need to get a life.

What am I going to do to get a life? I have no idea. First, I need to get out of bed. Staying there is just another way to hide from the world. I go home, take care of the animals, go to the bedroom, close my door, and crawl into bed. I hang out with the pups or play a computer game, and my world does not seem so empty. But this is too much like alcohol for me, just another way to escape my reality.

Second—I don’t know. Try to put my heart back together so that I can find my home.

Friendship

This morning when I opened my eyes, a memory ran through my mind that started me thinking about friendship. As I reflected on this memory, I realized that to share it with you I would also need to share a little about my relationship with alcohol. I think this memory really hit home with me because of all the recent news about fraternity/sorority hazing, even though this was not a hazing incident, but occurred at the apartment of some “friends” over 30 years ago.

I did not start drinking until I was in my early 20’s and my drinking career lasted until I was 26. I did not drink long, but I drank hard. I never really thought I would drink, because I had seen what alcoholism looks like. There were people on both sides of my family who had struggled with alcohol and alcoholism. Alcohol was always a part of my life when I was growing up, and I hated it. I swore I would never drink.

However, all that changed the first time I got drunk and it made the world go away. What joy! The sadness, the depression, the feeling of never being good enough, the sense of loneliness – all gone at the bottom of a glass. That night I found my friend, my savior, my remedy. After that, I don’t remember ever just having a drink. If I drank, I was getting drunk – escaping to my other world.

Needless to say, this did not go well for me for very long. I had friends now, people to party and drink with. But in the pit of my soul I was still so alone, and so lonely. I cannot even begin to explain some of my behavior during this time. Some of it I can’t even remember. I started blacking out and in many cases I only have the stories my friends told me later – and believe me, those stories were not pretty. I would wake up some mornings, look outside, and see my car in the parking lot, without any memory of driving home or getting in bed.

One morning I woke up with the covers over my head, and panicked. I thought, Where the hell am I? Who the hell am I with? I slowly pulled back the covers and there I was, in my own room, alone in my bed. But I never thought about those scary moments when I started drinking again the next day.

I am sure I will share more of these stories as I begin to share more of my life with you. This is just to give you an idea of how I lost myself to alcohol – and how grateful I am to have survived this time in my life and started on a path of recovery.

So now, about that memory I wanted to share. I have always tried to be a good person; this has always been my goal in life. And I’ve always assumed people would treat me the way I treated them.

I had started hanging out with a group of girls I considered to be friends. I would have done anything for them. I was spending time with them at their apartment and, of course, I was drinking. Mainly beer at first, although my favorite drink was tequila. I usually had a bottle in the car and one day, one of them asked me to go get it. We were going to do some shots.

They poured the shots and we drank them, then they decided we would play a game and take shots each time someone did some crazy thing (who knows what). The thing is, I was the only one really drinking the tequila. They just pretended to drink. So over the course of the night I got wasted. I have no idea what happened, but they thought it was funny as hell. They took pictures of me drunk off my ass. They fed me and took photos of me trying to eat, and did other, similar things.

I have thought of this event often in my life, recognizing how cruel and heartless it was on their part. I also realize that I could have died that night. Even during that period of my life, I would never have done that to anyone.

That is the memory I awoke to first thing this morning, and immediately my heart said, That is not friendship. That is cruel and careless behavior. None of those women had the alcohol problem I did. They drank, but not to the extent I did. My first true friend was the woman who said to me, “Melissa, they tell us in AA if we black out we might have a problem with alcohol.” She was the first person who loved me enough to tell me the truth. That is what friendship is about.

True friends tell you the truth even when it hurts. That simple sentence, spoken by my sweet friend Barbara (RIP), stuck in my mind. After hearing that, every time I blacked out I would think, “I might be an alcoholic.” I am so grateful Barbara had the courage to be honest, and that she was there for me when I was ready to stop drinking.

Over the years, I have seen the demonstration of true friendship over and over. True friends love you even when you cannot love yourself. True friends take you to chemotherapy and care for you when you are sick afterwards. True friends make sure you are not alone when your parents are ill or when they pass away. True friends help you walk through your grief when it’s so blinding you can’t even see the path in front of you. True friends listen with kindness and caring. True friends do not exploit your weaknesses – true friends rejoice in your strengths.

Thank you to all the true friends who have carried me through some of the darkest parts of my journey. Life is difficult, but it would be unbearable without each of you.

How My Brain Works

I just wanted to share with you how my brain works. I’m not sure if everyone’s brain operates this way, but mine does. Maybe I’m just crazy. I’m sure some of you already think so.

Here is a typical morning for me. Wake up. Run around taking care of animals and beating myself up for not getting out of bed when the alarm went off, and being late for work again. The crazy has not even started yet; that doesn’t begin until I get in my dad’s truck and head for work.

Lots of mornings I combat the crazy by calling someone and talking on the way to work. But this morning I run through my list of people: not Kim, because Steve is probably home, and I hate to bother her since he travels during the week. Not Sylvia; she is probably still sleeping. Not Lorene; she is having a weekend full of family. Not Gail; she is teaching. Not Doyle; he is probably still at the Fast Phil’s, telling stories with his buddies. So it is just me and my crazy brain on the way to work.

And . . . we’re off. Make sure you come to a complete stop at all stop signs so you don’t get stopped by the deputy again. But would he really know if he’s not sitting there? Do you think they would put cameras in the woods? Stop and proceed.

Now the brain starts missing my mom and dad, with that feeling that starts in my stomach, then moves from my chest into my throat. I want to vomit. The questions start: What the hell happened? Maybe this is just a nightmare and I will wake up soon. Feelings of guilt that I was not with Dad when he passed away. Why the hell did I put Mom in that nursing home?

I want to talk to them, see them. I want to tell them I love them. How can I keep living? How can I keep breathing?

Get to the next stop light. Notice the truck in front of me with an Obama/Biden sticker, and also a “War is not the answer” sticker. I have to get a look at this fellow Oglethorpe county citizen. He’s a man with a beard, a typical country-looking guy. My brain says, You never would have guessed that. Meet that dude on the street, and I would immediately have judged him. Scold myself for my judgments: Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Then my brain starts thinking about war. Who in God’s name thinks it’s okay to send other people’s children to fight these battles? How is it okay to take someone’s son or daughter and send them off to die? Why do we do this crazy thing? Patriotism? Some misguided sense of duty? How can I be okay when someone else is grieving the loss of their child or significant other? How can I be okay knowing others have died for me to be free? Those politicians should figure something out: some way to stop all this craziness.

Then the brain starts processing the politicians. Their lack of caring. Their lack of understanding. Divide, divide, divide–that is their goal. We must not let them win.

FINALLY I’m at the stop light in front of work. Here I am, at the hell hole again. Pull into my parking place, jump out of the truck. Brain says, You need to ask Jeff to explain how the air compressor works.

Twenty minutes from home to work, and I have exploded all sorts of poison into my brain. Self-destruct? No–here at work, I can fill my mind with work and my coworkers. But no telling what awaits me on my way home.