Last week I reminded a guy in Program that we Al-Anons aren't supposed to discuss politics during meetings. I thought he’d say, “You're right. Thank you for your diligent attention to Al-Anon's Twelve Traditions.”
Instead he had a screaming fit and started calling me names. I was able to smile and detach with love until he screamed, “YOU'RE ALWAYS PERFORMING!” Against my will, I felt shame shame shame.(You see, there's an element of truth to that.)
Later I thought of all the things I could have said to give him shame shame shame. Too late.
Now I want to place a big nail behind one of his car tires.
Okay, we won't do that. Instead let's analyze: why did I let him get to me?
Because abuse feels so homelike.
In my family, setting boundaries was never allowed. Once, after I got married, I told my alcoholic dad I didn’t want him to drink in my house. All hell broke out. The whole family was mad at me. Dad said he no longer had any feelings for me whatsoever. Mom called me “self-righteous.” Even my favorite aunt accused me of trying to break up my parent’s marriage. For three months none of them spoke to me.
I ended up apologizing to everyone and letting Dad drink in my home any time he wanted.
But now I'm in Al-Anon, I have tools to deal with this, I think.
Eons ago, when I taught preschool, the kids were always running up to me crying, "Mrs. Poe, Johnny said I was a dummy (or whatever.)" I always said, "He just says that because he thinks HE'S a dummy." and they'd run off, happy.
Hmmm.
You know, as I think of it, "Screamer" is always performing.
Isn't life interesting?
Showing posts with label Al-Anon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Al-Anon. Show all posts
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Hop Scotch
Some people wonder why I keep coming to Al-Anon when I no longer have any alcoholics in my life.
Three years after my dad died, Mom decided to sell the house. My daughter LPR and I stopped by just before the first potential buyers were coming over. The realtor and Mom were in the kitchen signing papers, so I started nervously wandering around, cleaning, trying to set the house (and by association, my family) in their best light. As I rearranged stuff in the spare bedroom, my daughter said, “Mom, you’re really acting co-dependent.”
Of course, I am never co-dependent, but I told her, “Okay. We should leave before the buyers get here. Let me just close these closet doors…”
But the doors jammed. What was blocking the way? I looked and found…a half-empty bottle of scotch.
Oh my gosh! This must have been Dad’s hiding spot!
Now we had a crisis: What was I going to do with that bottle? Think of it: potential buyers, strangers, were coming over any minute. I couldn’t leave a bottle of scotch in the closet; they’d think my mom was an alcoholic. I considered putting it in the trash, but that would look worse.
My daughter suggested I pour the booze down the kitchen sink. But Mom and the realtor were in there. I could just imagine what the realtor would think if if I walked in, humming casually, then poured a bottle of scotch down the drain.
Finally I spied LPR’s old toy cupboard. No one would ever look in there. But my daughter had a fit: “I don’t want that disgusting thing in there with my toys.”
By now I was so stressed you could have strung me for piano wire. But good mother that I am, I screamed, “SHUT UP! IT’S GOING IN THERE AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE ABOUT IT!”
I threw the bottle into the toy cupboard, slammed the doors, and LPR and I rushed to the front door just in time say hello to the buyers and slink off.
The next morning I told Mom about the bottle. She said, “Oh, That explains it! I was cleaning the cupboard last night and thought, ‘What? LPR has a drinking problem?’ " (If you knew my daughter you’d understand why this gave everyone a good laugh.)
But as you can see, no matter how many years my alcoholic has been gone, his alcoholism—and my insanity--can still rise up and bite me in the...rear closet.
Three years after my dad died, Mom decided to sell the house. My daughter LPR and I stopped by just before the first potential buyers were coming over. The realtor and Mom were in the kitchen signing papers, so I started nervously wandering around, cleaning, trying to set the house (and by association, my family) in their best light. As I rearranged stuff in the spare bedroom, my daughter said, “Mom, you’re really acting co-dependent.”
Of course, I am never co-dependent, but I told her, “Okay. We should leave before the buyers get here. Let me just close these closet doors…”
But the doors jammed. What was blocking the way? I looked and found…a half-empty bottle of scotch.
Oh my gosh! This must have been Dad’s hiding spot!
Now we had a crisis: What was I going to do with that bottle? Think of it: potential buyers, strangers, were coming over any minute. I couldn’t leave a bottle of scotch in the closet; they’d think my mom was an alcoholic. I considered putting it in the trash, but that would look worse.
My daughter suggested I pour the booze down the kitchen sink. But Mom and the realtor were in there. I could just imagine what the realtor would think if if I walked in, humming casually, then poured a bottle of scotch down the drain.
Finally I spied LPR’s old toy cupboard. No one would ever look in there. But my daughter had a fit: “I don’t want that disgusting thing in there with my toys.”
By now I was so stressed you could have strung me for piano wire. But good mother that I am, I screamed, “SHUT UP! IT’S GOING IN THERE AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE ABOUT IT!”
I threw the bottle into the toy cupboard, slammed the doors, and LPR and I rushed to the front door just in time say hello to the buyers and slink off.
The next morning I told Mom about the bottle. She said, “Oh, That explains it! I was cleaning the cupboard last night and thought, ‘What? LPR has a drinking problem?’ " (If you knew my daughter you’d understand why this gave everyone a good laugh.)
But as you can see, no matter how many years my alcoholic has been gone, his alcoholism—and my insanity--can still rise up and bite me in the...rear closet.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Before and After
Let’s travel back to when I was seventeen and in love for the first time...
Reader, he was The One, that perfect guy who would make me A-OK forever.*
One day he brought, in his lunch, a salt shaker from home. He’d tucked little piece of Saran Wrap under the lid to keep salt from spilling; to use it he unscrewed the lid, removed the Saran Wrap, salted his food, then replaced lid and Wrap. I lit into him: “Saran Wrap on a salt shaker?! That is the most prissy thing I’ve ever seen! Man, you are so uptight!”
It never occurred to me that it wasn’t exactly endearing to attack The One over the way he packs his salt. And why did I think Saran Wrap under a salt shaker was so heinous anyway?
I can only say it was all part of the codependent web: "My way is the right way and it’s my duty to get everyone else in the world doing likewise."
Now January 31, 2010: The “after” picture:
My husband JR and I are getting ready to check out of our hotel. I am trying to hurry us along because we need to take Aunt Thelma out to lunch and we’re running late. In the midst of packing his things, JR insists we stop and make the bed. Never mind that we were supposed to be at Aunt Thelma's by now, that Housekeeping is standing right outside our room and will un-make this bed minutes after we leave.
What does Poe do? I take a very deep breath and help him make the bed. It takes four seconds.
The result--JR leaves the room feeling happy. I'm proud of myself for not trying to fix him. Lesson learned: I’m not powerful enough to un-uptight anyone anyway.
And BTW, we get to Aunt Thelma’s in plenty of time.
*Incidentally the first boy I loved was also a charmingly cruel, sociopathic, lying alcoholic—just irresistible you know.
Reader, he was The One, that perfect guy who would make me A-OK forever.*
One day he brought, in his lunch, a salt shaker from home. He’d tucked little piece of Saran Wrap under the lid to keep salt from spilling; to use it he unscrewed the lid, removed the Saran Wrap, salted his food, then replaced lid and Wrap. I lit into him: “Saran Wrap on a salt shaker?! That is the most prissy thing I’ve ever seen! Man, you are so uptight!”
It never occurred to me that it wasn’t exactly endearing to attack The One over the way he packs his salt. And why did I think Saran Wrap under a salt shaker was so heinous anyway?
I can only say it was all part of the codependent web: "My way is the right way and it’s my duty to get everyone else in the world doing likewise."
Now January 31, 2010: The “after” picture:
My husband JR and I are getting ready to check out of our hotel. I am trying to hurry us along because we need to take Aunt Thelma out to lunch and we’re running late. In the midst of packing his things, JR insists we stop and make the bed. Never mind that we were supposed to be at Aunt Thelma's by now, that Housekeeping is standing right outside our room and will un-make this bed minutes after we leave.
What does Poe do? I take a very deep breath and help him make the bed. It takes four seconds.
The result--JR leaves the room feeling happy. I'm proud of myself for not trying to fix him. Lesson learned: I’m not powerful enough to un-uptight anyone anyway.
And BTW, we get to Aunt Thelma’s in plenty of time.
*Incidentally the first boy I loved was also a charmingly cruel, sociopathic, lying alcoholic—just irresistible you know.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
What Does This Cartoon Have to Do With Our Current Vacation?
Years ago I went to an Al-Anon assembly with my sponsor Barbara. When we checked into our hotel, we discovered they’d given us a smoking room. That wouldn’t do, so she and I went back to the front desk. Our new room turned out to be miles away from our friends and musty-smelling besides.
I figured, “Okay, we’ll have to live with it.” But Barbara marched us right back and demanded a room near our friends.
There followed one of the most embarrassing twenty minutes of my life. The clerk kept saying, “Sorry, we have no other rooms,” and Barbara kept insisting he look harder.
BUT after much pestering on her part, they magically found us a non-smoking room that connected to our friends'room.
Barbara turned to me and said, “You’ve got to ask for what you want.”
I was horrified. I could never, never do that.
Fast forward to last Wednesday.
JR and I board our train for New Orleans and find that Amtrak has put us in a bedroom downstairs . This is terrible. We always get an upstairs room with beautiful views. Now we’re stuck with views of the railroad cut.
Something makes me seek out Julie the car attendant. I ask, “Is there any way we can get an upstairs room?”
“Only if somebody doesn’t show up.”
As soon as we leave, I find her and point out three empty upstairs rooms.
She says, “We have to make certain the missing passengers don’t show up at the next stop.” (This means waiting an hour.)
As soon as we depart the next stop, I’m back, gently pestering Julie.
She says, “I have to call and get approval for the room change.”
“Okay, we’ll wait.”
There was a time when the most important thing was to not bother anybody, to not make a fuss.
But nowadays I feel like Ginger in The Far Side cartoon, doggedly ignoring all those discouraging words.
The moral: As I write this, we’re happily enjoying the view from our upper level room. Thank you, Barbara. Thank you God. Thank you Ginger.
Of course the next day I think,
“Gee. I kinda like the downstairs view better.”
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Unhappy, Unhappy
“Unhappy, Unhappy, you have no complaint
You are what you are and you ain’t what you ain’t…”
Had to go early to set up my monthly women’s spirituality group. I wished I’d stayed home and worked on my art project instead. (Probably didn’t help that they were already set up when I arrived.)
I decided I’d sit at an empty table in the back of the room so I could hide out and ink my drawings during the meeting. Got breakfast and hoped nobody would come to my table.
Then nobody did. I ate my whole breakfast and no one joined me. It began to bother me. A lot. I watched friends, even my cousin, walk right by to sit at other tables, tables that already had lots of people at them. This pissed me off. I thought, “If one of them was sitting by herself, I’d sit with her.” Tables filled up and mine was the only empty table. That’s I went to “Nobody likes me; I don’t belong on planet earth. “
I recognized this place; I used to live there. I was sliding down into a hole that is very hard to get out of.
So my Al-Anon kicked in and I prayed, “God show me how you want me to be.”
Here are some of the thoughts that then came into my mind:
*Maybe I’m subconsciously conveying “stay away.”
*People aren’t sitting down with me, not because I’m a loser, but because they don’t feel safe with me.
*People are my mirrors. If I’m feeling good about myself, they will be attracted to me; If I’m rejecting myself they’ll stay away.
I tried feeling good about myself (See previous Blog entries); still nobody came over.
Then I got up to get more hot water and saw Janet, a woman I know to be extremely friendly and nurturing. I gave her a hug and asked, “Would you sit at my table?”
I went back to my seat. And before Janet could get there, Saundra, Mary Claire,and Deborah sat down. “Oh what wonderful drawings,” they said.
.
“…So listen up, Buster, and listen up good
Stop wishin’ for bad luck and knockin’on wood.”
John Prine
You are what you are and you ain’t what you ain’t…”
Had to go early to set up my monthly women’s spirituality group. I wished I’d stayed home and worked on my art project instead. (Probably didn’t help that they were already set up when I arrived.)
I decided I’d sit at an empty table in the back of the room so I could hide out and ink my drawings during the meeting. Got breakfast and hoped nobody would come to my table.
Then nobody did. I ate my whole breakfast and no one joined me. It began to bother me. A lot. I watched friends, even my cousin, walk right by to sit at other tables, tables that already had lots of people at them. This pissed me off. I thought, “If one of them was sitting by herself, I’d sit with her.” Tables filled up and mine was the only empty table. That’s I went to “Nobody likes me; I don’t belong on planet earth. “
I recognized this place; I used to live there. I was sliding down into a hole that is very hard to get out of.
So my Al-Anon kicked in and I prayed, “God show me how you want me to be.”
Here are some of the thoughts that then came into my mind:
*Maybe I’m subconsciously conveying “stay away.”
*People aren’t sitting down with me, not because I’m a loser, but because they don’t feel safe with me.
*People are my mirrors. If I’m feeling good about myself, they will be attracted to me; If I’m rejecting myself they’ll stay away.
I tried feeling good about myself (See previous Blog entries); still nobody came over.
Then I got up to get more hot water and saw Janet, a woman I know to be extremely friendly and nurturing. I gave her a hug and asked, “Would you sit at my table?”
I went back to my seat. And before Janet could get there, Saundra, Mary Claire,and Deborah sat down. “Oh what wonderful drawings,” they said.
.
“…So listen up, Buster, and listen up good
Stop wishin’ for bad luck and knockin’on wood.”
John Prine
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Stupidity As a Healing Force
Growing up in an alcoholic home, I learned to constantly beat myself up over everything.
I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop.
After I joined Al-Anon, I heard "If I want to make a change, I have to actively do the opposite."
So...
Once a day I thought up five good things about me. It would take forever to come up with that many, but I stuck with it.
Now I do over a hundred several times a day. Takes about a minute.
Recent examples:
I send my cousin a birthday card and a gift bag of candy
I made myself a big salad for lunch—very healthy and delicious
I gave the cats their flea medicine.
I did some beautiful drawings for my book project.
I paid the Visa bill on time.
Every morning and frequently during the day I take a minute to look on myself the way I'd look on a small adorable baby. (When I look at, say, my 10-month old great-nephew I don’t compare him to other babies or think, Hmpf! He didn’t pick up that toy correctly. I just groove on the wonderful, lovable boy he is.)
Loving and praising myself feels really stupid. But it's proved more powerful and healing than anything has before.
I'm not saying I'm all well--I still think negative thoughts. They've just gotten less and less frequent, with shorter and shorter durations.
Examples:
You may remember our cat died last week. My first thought: “If,two years ago, I'd taken her to the vet sooner, maybe she'd be alive today.”
I thought that for only about 30 seconds. Then “Oh Poe, that’s just self-hatred; give it up.” And I did.
After we buried her, I thought, “Gee I really didn’t check one last time to make absolutely certain she was dead. What if she wakes up down there?”
Had that one for about twenty seconds. Then: “Poe, she was stiff as a board. Let it go.”
You see, I couldn’t stop self-hating thoughts before because I was standing on a base of “Poe is bad, can’t do anything right, never good enough.” Now I am building a base of Poe is good, kind, lovable, and competent.
I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop.
After I joined Al-Anon, I heard "If I want to make a change, I have to actively do the opposite."
So...
Once a day I thought up five good things about me. It would take forever to come up with that many, but I stuck with it.
Now I do over a hundred several times a day. Takes about a minute.
Recent examples:
I send my cousin a birthday card and a gift bag of candy
I made myself a big salad for lunch—very healthy and delicious
I gave the cats their flea medicine.
I did some beautiful drawings for my book project.
I paid the Visa bill on time.
Every morning and frequently during the day I take a minute to look on myself the way I'd look on a small adorable baby. (When I look at, say, my 10-month old great-nephew I don’t compare him to other babies or think, Hmpf! He didn’t pick up that toy correctly. I just groove on the wonderful, lovable boy he is.)
Loving and praising myself feels really stupid. But it's proved more powerful and healing than anything has before.
I'm not saying I'm all well--I still think negative thoughts. They've just gotten less and less frequent, with shorter and shorter durations.
Examples:
You may remember our cat died last week. My first thought: “If,two years ago, I'd taken her to the vet sooner, maybe she'd be alive today.”
I thought that for only about 30 seconds. Then “Oh Poe, that’s just self-hatred; give it up.” And I did.
After we buried her, I thought, “Gee I really didn’t check one last time to make absolutely certain she was dead. What if she wakes up down there?”
Had that one for about twenty seconds. Then: “Poe, she was stiff as a board. Let it go.”
You see, I couldn’t stop self-hating thoughts before because I was standing on a base of “Poe is bad, can’t do anything right, never good enough.” Now I am building a base of Poe is good, kind, lovable, and competent.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
“These Seats Are Saved," Part Two
November 1997: One of my favorite Al-Anon speakers, Father Tom W, is doing a Twelve-Step workshop in San Jose, a town I’ve never visited. Eager to hear him again, I do a most brave thing—drive up there by myself. I follow the map, everything goes fine.
Until I enter the church where the workshop is. I find myself in a huge room filled with dozens of large round tables. Several hundred strangers are taking their seats. I stare around the room. Panic. Junior High. How will I find a seat when I don’t know a soul?
But I have been in Program for seven years. So I pray, “God, show me where to sit.” Immediately I feel a Powerful Nudge toward one table. Only two people are sitting there, lots of empty seats. I go up and say, “Okay if I sit here?”
They respond, “NO! WE’RE SAVING THESE SEATS.” (In every organization there are always a few people who don’t “get it.”)
But I feel like I’d been slapped. I respond with a cheery “Oh, okay!” like getting shut out at an Al-Anon event is everybody’s favorite experience. I stumble to an empty table and drop into a chair, shaking with shame and humiliation. But mostly with anger. (“Hey, God, I thought you were my friend. Did I not ask you for a safe place to sit? Why did you direct me to that snake pit?)
People come up to my table. Of course I let anyone sit there who wants to. The whole time I am still thinking,: “Why Why Why? Does this just confirm what I’ve always known-- nobody likes me? Born human by mistake?”
Then I notice a late-comer, a young woman with a very familiar deer-in-the-headlights expression. She obviously doesn’t know a soul either. But by now all the tables are filled.
I call out, “Would you like to sit at our table? We’ll make room for you.” Relief lights up her face. We find an extra chair, everyone scoots over, and waitstaff brings another place setting. Suddenly I am not in a room full of strangers; the young woman and I become instant friends. (Now THAT’S the Al-Anon way)
Clever Reader, do you get my meaning: God is in how I respond—Will I succumb to shame and resentment or will I let Badness motivate me to do the opposite?
“If in the course of a day you run into somebody who doesn't like you, that happens sometimes. If in the course of the day you run into three or more people who don't like you, you’re the one who doesn't like you.”
Father Tom W, paraphrased
Until I enter the church where the workshop is. I find myself in a huge room filled with dozens of large round tables. Several hundred strangers are taking their seats. I stare around the room. Panic. Junior High. How will I find a seat when I don’t know a soul?
But I have been in Program for seven years. So I pray, “God, show me where to sit.” Immediately I feel a Powerful Nudge toward one table. Only two people are sitting there, lots of empty seats. I go up and say, “Okay if I sit here?”
They respond, “NO! WE’RE SAVING THESE SEATS.” (In every organization there are always a few people who don’t “get it.”)
But I feel like I’d been slapped. I respond with a cheery “Oh, okay!” like getting shut out at an Al-Anon event is everybody’s favorite experience. I stumble to an empty table and drop into a chair, shaking with shame and humiliation. But mostly with anger. (“Hey, God, I thought you were my friend. Did I not ask you for a safe place to sit? Why did you direct me to that snake pit?)
People come up to my table. Of course I let anyone sit there who wants to. The whole time I am still thinking,: “Why Why Why? Does this just confirm what I’ve always known-- nobody likes me? Born human by mistake?”
Then I notice a late-comer, a young woman with a very familiar deer-in-the-headlights expression. She obviously doesn’t know a soul either. But by now all the tables are filled.
I call out, “Would you like to sit at our table? We’ll make room for you.” Relief lights up her face. We find an extra chair, everyone scoots over, and waitstaff brings another place setting. Suddenly I am not in a room full of strangers; the young woman and I become instant friends. (Now THAT’S the Al-Anon way)
Clever Reader, do you get my meaning: God is in how I respond—Will I succumb to shame and resentment or will I let Badness motivate me to do the opposite?
“If in the course of a day you run into somebody who doesn't like you, that happens sometimes. If in the course of the day you run into three or more people who don't like you, you’re the one who doesn't like you.”
Father Tom W, paraphrased
Saturday, July 11, 2009
A Writer’s Day: Saturday, 7-11-09
Woke--Meditated, prayed, affirmed
Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.
Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.
Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.
Fed cats.
Lunch.
Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.
Started writng an Easy Reader.
Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)
Did another chapter of Easy Reader
Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.
Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes
Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden
Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.
Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.
Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.
Called husband to see what time he’d be home.
Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”
Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.
Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.
Wrote blog.
Husband came home.
Posted blog.
Dinner.
Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.
Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.
Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.
Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.
Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.
Fed cats.
Lunch.
Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.
Started writng an Easy Reader.
Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)
Did another chapter of Easy Reader
Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.
Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes
Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden
Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.
Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.
Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.
Called husband to see what time he’d be home.
Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”
Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.
Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.
Wrote blog.
Husband came home.
Posted blog.
Dinner.
Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.
Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Many Loves of Lyttie Poe, Episode Two
I was raised atheist; in fact we were fundamentalist atheists. (Our bumper sticker would have read: “There Is No God, Only Ignorant, Superstitious People Believe In Him, And That Settles It.”)
If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”
I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?
Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.
They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?
Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:
I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….
Popeye the Sailor?!
Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?
But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?
“I yam what I yam.”
The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.
At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.
Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.
If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”
I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?
Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.
They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?
Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:
I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….
Popeye the Sailor?!
Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?
But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?
“I yam what I yam.”
The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.
At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.
Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Why I Feel Better These Days.
One of the consequences of growing up in an alcoholic home, is that I never think I’m good enough. In fact, if you went inside my head, you’d hear a constant tape of all the reasons I don’t measure up: “I did this wrong, I forgot to do that, I didn’t do this soon enough, people probably think I’m neurotic.” Needless to say, this makes me nuts.
Al-Anon says, “If you don’t like a behavior, start doing the opposite.”
So about fifteen years ago I began a practice of thinking five good things about myself a day. Back then I had trouble thinking anything good about me. It all felt like a lie, even evil: “I’m being narcissistic.”
But Jesus said you have to look at the fruits. The more I thought nice things about myself, the more I was kind, confident, loving, altruistic, and I was a lot less depressed.
Here are the rules:
* If I’d beat myself up for NOT doing something, I get to praise myself every time I do do it.
* It's okay to think the same thought multiple times.***
* If during my daily “praise time” I think anything bad about myself, I have to come up with five more good things.
* Every day I pick one positive thing and write it down in a little book, to use on the days I can’t think of anything.
* Ever so often I increase the number of good things. (These days I can usually rattle off 100 at a time.)
Nowadays I do this six times a day: when I get up, at 10, 12, 2, 5 and at bedtime. At the same time I also pray and meditate for about a minute.
A RECENT LIST, ABBREVIATED:
1. I remembered to send my brother a birthday card.
2. Today I took time to stop and smell the daffodils.
3. I ate salad for lunch instead of a milkshake.
4. I sent my manuscript to an editor.
5. Before mailing I proofread the manuscript about ten times.
6. I asked my daughter, in a loving way, to remove her laundry from the spare bedroom bed.
7. I save pinecones from our yard and give them to a kindergarten teacher for crafts.
8. I joined an exercise class.
9. I felt self-conscious in my exercise class; then realized nobody’s watching me--we’re all just a bunch of middle-aged women having fun exercising.
10. I made the bed this morning.
11. I praised myself for making the bed this morning.
12. I praised myself for praising myself for making my bed this morning.
13. When my cell phone went through the washing machine, I didn't overeat, I called the cell phone company.
14. I remembered to send my brother a birthday card.***
15. I got my blog entry done this week.
Al-Anon says, “If you don’t like a behavior, start doing the opposite.”
So about fifteen years ago I began a practice of thinking five good things about myself a day. Back then I had trouble thinking anything good about me. It all felt like a lie, even evil: “I’m being narcissistic.”
But Jesus said you have to look at the fruits. The more I thought nice things about myself, the more I was kind, confident, loving, altruistic, and I was a lot less depressed.
Here are the rules:
* If I’d beat myself up for NOT doing something, I get to praise myself every time I do do it.
* It's okay to think the same thought multiple times.***
* If during my daily “praise time” I think anything bad about myself, I have to come up with five more good things.
* Every day I pick one positive thing and write it down in a little book, to use on the days I can’t think of anything.
* Ever so often I increase the number of good things. (These days I can usually rattle off 100 at a time.)
Nowadays I do this six times a day: when I get up, at 10, 12, 2, 5 and at bedtime. At the same time I also pray and meditate for about a minute.
A RECENT LIST, ABBREVIATED:
1. I remembered to send my brother a birthday card.
2. Today I took time to stop and smell the daffodils.
3. I ate salad for lunch instead of a milkshake.
4. I sent my manuscript to an editor.
5. Before mailing I proofread the manuscript about ten times.
6. I asked my daughter, in a loving way, to remove her laundry from the spare bedroom bed.
7. I save pinecones from our yard and give them to a kindergarten teacher for crafts.
8. I joined an exercise class.
9. I felt self-conscious in my exercise class; then realized nobody’s watching me--we’re all just a bunch of middle-aged women having fun exercising.
10. I made the bed this morning.
11. I praised myself for making the bed this morning.
12. I praised myself for praising myself for making my bed this morning.
13. When my cell phone went through the washing machine, I didn't overeat, I called the cell phone company.
14. I remembered to send my brother a birthday card.***
15. I got my blog entry done this week.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Just When I Thought It Was Safe...
Well I thought I was over getting trashed last week. But I’m not. Went to a meeting last night and my trasher was there. As soon as I saw him, I felt all jittery and upset. I thought, “Damn, he goes to the noon meetings every day. Can’t he stay home once in a while?”
I sat where I couldn’t see him, but I didn’t enjoy the meeting much. (It wasn’t just his presence; people were having private conversations while others were sharing.)
I felt so pissed, I went home and ate about a cup of peanut butter mixed with about a cup of choc syrup and powdered milk. Then I had some French bread while I watched a show about the Great Chicago Fire. Felt pretty sick as I went to bed.
A wise Al-Anon once told me, “When you can't get over emotional pain, ask yourself, 'Have I ever felt this way before?'”
Meditating on her words, I am reminded how my older brother always hated me. When I was just leaning to crawl, he’d stomp on me and I’d go splat. According to my mom, I got so frustrated, I would bite my own hand.
One can see the parallels--I got stomped on at a meeting, went splat, and now I can’t get back at the guy. (Well I did think about putting dog doo on his car door handles, but that’s not the Al-Anon way.) You might say I was biting my own hand last night with all that peanut butter, etc.
Today’s entry in the One Day at a Time book told about having compassion for our alcoholic’s pain. I thought, “Anybody who would say the things my trasher said must be really hurting.” There’s the famous phrase-- Hurting People hurt other people.
Went to the noon meeting today and every time I had to look at Mr. Trasher, I imagined him all bloody and bruised. You know, it worked. I felt kindness and compassion. People shared about Step 3, turning one’s life over to the Higher Power. I shared about letting go of controlling my daughter. Mr. Trasher shared about letting go of controlling his daughter.
I walked out of the meeting feeling better than I have in a long time.
I sat where I couldn’t see him, but I didn’t enjoy the meeting much. (It wasn’t just his presence; people were having private conversations while others were sharing.)
I felt so pissed, I went home and ate about a cup of peanut butter mixed with about a cup of choc syrup and powdered milk. Then I had some French bread while I watched a show about the Great Chicago Fire. Felt pretty sick as I went to bed.
A wise Al-Anon once told me, “When you can't get over emotional pain, ask yourself, 'Have I ever felt this way before?'”
Meditating on her words, I am reminded how my older brother always hated me. When I was just leaning to crawl, he’d stomp on me and I’d go splat. According to my mom, I got so frustrated, I would bite my own hand.
One can see the parallels--I got stomped on at a meeting, went splat, and now I can’t get back at the guy. (Well I did think about putting dog doo on his car door handles, but that’s not the Al-Anon way.) You might say I was biting my own hand last night with all that peanut butter, etc.
Today’s entry in the One Day at a Time book told about having compassion for our alcoholic’s pain. I thought, “Anybody who would say the things my trasher said must be really hurting.” There’s the famous phrase-- Hurting People hurt other people.
Went to the noon meeting today and every time I had to look at Mr. Trasher, I imagined him all bloody and bruised. You know, it worked. I felt kindness and compassion. People shared about Step 3, turning one’s life over to the Higher Power. I shared about letting go of controlling my daughter. Mr. Trasher shared about letting go of controlling his daughter.
I walked out of the meeting feeling better than I have in a long time.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Pilgrimage to L'vull
Why this pilgrimage? Why have I travelled 2000 miles back to L’vull, my childhood home which I left 30 years ago? Like all pilgrims, do I hope for transformation? Will I find myself in the presence of God? Or am I just returning to “the scene of the crime,” trying to get it right this time?
Thursday morning I step outside and the very texture of L’vull air catapults me back. Suddenly I am seven years old. Running through wet grass. Green beans with bacon fat. The reflection of my face in the bathtub faucet. Nighttime traffic noises. Everything had magic in it.
But magic also carries danger. At age seven everything bad got stuck inside me too:
When L’vull built its first freeway, my family took a spin on it. Such novelty! Imagine having a minimum speed--35 MPH! Windows down, fast breezes rushing in. It’s a beautiful May day. We barrel along, happy.
Then my mom yells, “Dad, you’re supposed to exit here!” He swerves, but can’t make it through the flow of traffic. Suddenly he is purple with rage. “It’s all your fault!” he screams, driving with one hand while he beats her with the other. No more happy family. We kids cower in the back seat.
Before I left home on Tuesday, I called the 800 number to locate an Al-Anon meeting in L’vull. The operator said, “There’s one at the Star Hill Library…” Before she could give directions, I said, “Say no more.” Star Hill was OUR branch library, just half a mile from our house.
I park a few blocks away, so I can walk down the same sidewalk I’d trudged so many times as a kid. There, just as I remembered, is the big gothic building, warm light shining from the windows. In the basement, a cardboard sign: Alanon Spoken Here.
I sit down as the chairperson reads, “We welcome you…and hope you will find the help and friendship we have been privileged to enjoy.” At once huge tears float down my face. I remember all the years I’d spent alone in this town, thinking I was the only person in the world with a crazy alcoholic father. What a difference if Lyttle Poe could have wandered into her branch library and found a room where she didn’t have to cower any more.
I do walk out transformed, get in my car, and drive down the old freeway. Enchanted by the jewel-like trees, the Abe Lincoln fences, I realize I am all grown up now. If anyone gets violent, I can leave.
L’vull has become my Lourdes.
Thursday morning I step outside and the very texture of L’vull air catapults me back. Suddenly I am seven years old. Running through wet grass. Green beans with bacon fat. The reflection of my face in the bathtub faucet. Nighttime traffic noises. Everything had magic in it.
But magic also carries danger. At age seven everything bad got stuck inside me too:
When L’vull built its first freeway, my family took a spin on it. Such novelty! Imagine having a minimum speed--35 MPH! Windows down, fast breezes rushing in. It’s a beautiful May day. We barrel along, happy.
Then my mom yells, “Dad, you’re supposed to exit here!” He swerves, but can’t make it through the flow of traffic. Suddenly he is purple with rage. “It’s all your fault!” he screams, driving with one hand while he beats her with the other. No more happy family. We kids cower in the back seat.
Before I left home on Tuesday, I called the 800 number to locate an Al-Anon meeting in L’vull. The operator said, “There’s one at the Star Hill Library…” Before she could give directions, I said, “Say no more.” Star Hill was OUR branch library, just half a mile from our house.
I park a few blocks away, so I can walk down the same sidewalk I’d trudged so many times as a kid. There, just as I remembered, is the big gothic building, warm light shining from the windows. In the basement, a cardboard sign: Alanon Spoken Here.
I sit down as the chairperson reads, “We welcome you…and hope you will find the help and friendship we have been privileged to enjoy.” At once huge tears float down my face. I remember all the years I’d spent alone in this town, thinking I was the only person in the world with a crazy alcoholic father. What a difference if Lyttle Poe could have wandered into her branch library and found a room where she didn’t have to cower any more.
I do walk out transformed, get in my car, and drive down the old freeway. Enchanted by the jewel-like trees, the Abe Lincoln fences, I realize I am all grown up now. If anyone gets violent, I can leave.
L’vull has become my Lourdes.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Bunny's Tail
Dad wore Old Spice Aftershave. As a child I loved that smell. It covered up the stink of alcohol which oozed from his pores and which gagged me as I reached up to kiss him goodnight.
One of the requirements in our family was that I pretend to adore him. On the rare occasions I didn’t, he’d shout, "YOU MUST THINK I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON!”
As an adult, I imagine myself saying, “I do think you’re a terrible person. Consider what you’ve done to my mother, to our house, to me. Don’t come around here with your alcoholic victimization routine.” But at the time I was struck dumb, paralyzed from the terrible wound that we called a family.
Dad has been dead six years now. One of the things my daughter inherited was his old leather key chain. She says, “It used to smell like [Grandpa], but it doesn’t any more.” Curious, I take a sniff and my hound dog nose picks up the scent of Old Spice.
Instantly the memory of him comes back so intensely he seems to be in the room with us. Tears fill my eyes. My daddy is here and he’s gone forever.
I lean against the wall, very mixed up. On one hand, I am a scared kid, hiding under the kitchen table while he beats my mom. Another part of me remembers…
The first time he came home from rehab, I was five or six. He had made two ceramic bowls in there--one for my brother and one for me. I still have mine. On the side is a picture of me with a halo and my nickname Pody followed by pictures of cats dreaming about fish or saying “meow.” Best of all, at the bottom of the bowl was the back of a bunny. If I ate all my cereal or whatever, I could see its fluffy tail.
Today I hold the bowl in my hands and think how he went to the trouble to make this treasure for me. If there was a fire in our house (and assuming the cats and husband were safely outside) I would grab that bowl, because hidden underneath the alcoholism, he’d loved me all the time. And underneath the fear and hurt and anger I’d loved him.
One of the requirements in our family was that I pretend to adore him. On the rare occasions I didn’t, he’d shout, "YOU MUST THINK I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON!”
As an adult, I imagine myself saying, “I do think you’re a terrible person. Consider what you’ve done to my mother, to our house, to me. Don’t come around here with your alcoholic victimization routine.” But at the time I was struck dumb, paralyzed from the terrible wound that we called a family.
Dad has been dead six years now. One of the things my daughter inherited was his old leather key chain. She says, “It used to smell like [Grandpa], but it doesn’t any more.” Curious, I take a sniff and my hound dog nose picks up the scent of Old Spice.
Instantly the memory of him comes back so intensely he seems to be in the room with us. Tears fill my eyes. My daddy is here and he’s gone forever.
I lean against the wall, very mixed up. On one hand, I am a scared kid, hiding under the kitchen table while he beats my mom. Another part of me remembers…
The first time he came home from rehab, I was five or six. He had made two ceramic bowls in there--one for my brother and one for me. I still have mine. On the side is a picture of me with a halo and my nickname Pody followed by pictures of cats dreaming about fish or saying “meow.” Best of all, at the bottom of the bowl was the back of a bunny. If I ate all my cereal or whatever, I could see its fluffy tail.
Today I hold the bowl in my hands and think how he went to the trouble to make this treasure for me. If there was a fire in our house (and assuming the cats and husband were safely outside) I would grab that bowl, because hidden underneath the alcoholism, he’d loved me all the time. And underneath the fear and hurt and anger I’d loved him.
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