Celebrating Milestones

A day of quiet reflection gives me time to acknowledge one particular day of accomplishments that I did not get to share before now.

Two weeks ago, I was anticipating my son's last day of school before Winter Break. This day is traditionally celebrated by the fifth graders with a mid-year banquet and daytime school dance. I was afraid of the social part of this event, myself.

(Last December, the days before Winter break were fraught with guilt at unmet expectations. Was it so for my mother as well, to feel inadequate to show up in a public way when I was in elementary school?)

I am happy today to look back and feel largely happy with who I showed up to be at my son's banquet. Why? Because for once I had had a light hand on myself in the kind of "situation that used to baffle me". Instead of applying my will and insisting I "should" show up visibly, I chose to do things I like to do to help out that were more behind the scenes.

I like to cook--from scratch. So I planned on making a lasagna. I usually do things the labor-intensive way which demands credit, but for this project, I purchased a bottled sauce for the lasagna and bought grated cheese. I am also not great at decorating. So, I ordered the balloons two days ahead of time and figured I would find some other folks to help me pick them up and take credit for delivery.

Then I made conscious effort not to compare myself to the star moms who organize such events and who are happy social butterflies. I started my plan for success with a short list made the night before, showing only where I had to be and when. It really helped that I had a mental image of meeting up with three people that day that believe in me. Not including my HP :) I affirmed myself for being a behind-the-scenes gal.

I had had to reschedule my appointment with my psychiatrist for this final day of school too! The night before, I had worries because I thought the appointment had been for 10:45, but the message on my machine told me that we were scheduled for 9:45. That actually removed some of my apprehensions coordinating my plans around a lasagna drop off and balloon pick up.. and general angst about a focus on mental health issues in the midst of a final day of school. I asked my HP for guidance... then checked my cell phone's voice mail. I found that a friend had left a message two days before that I had not returned. She wanted to help with the banquet. I called her and when I mentioned the need for a balloon pick-up, she decided it would be a perfect way for her to start her day!

So I went to bed with peace in my heart and a solid Plan A. Three other important activities did not yet have a definite location in my next day's plan. One important part of my daily plan is exercise. I did not have that exercise slot confirmed when I went to bed. Nor did I have a clear picture of what I would do for teacher gifts... And I had to make a revision on an article by the end of the next day too. Still had an expert to locate for that! I practiced letting go of my apprehensions, and allowing my HP to help me address them when the time came.

I got up at 6:30 am to meditate. That really helped me to keep my usual sabotaging voice from getting the upper hand.

I practiced a new way of working on this big lasagna (which I had never made before), and cooked my noodles in two batches. I let myself really enjoy the process by laying out the noodles, flat, on a silicone mat that was lightly oiled. I lightly oiled the noodles, too, so that they would not stick to each other. I chose to follow my intuition and not have the school cafeteria cook the lasagna, but use my own oven to cook things.

I got the lasagna cooked just minutes before I head to go to my psychiatric appointment! In fact, I confirmed that I had the time correct, just as I put the lasagna in the oven! I was on-time to the appointment and handled myself with exemplary confidence, filling the doctor in on medication and family issues without a trace of anxiety.

When I left the doctor, I still had hopes of getting much needed exercise, but only had time to pick up the balloons. I was pleasantly surprised to find I was early to the complex where the balloons are sold. On the way, I had already made a plan to pop in and buy gift cards at a nearby bookstore for the teacher's gift. I had plenty of time to do that.... and then I popped in at another store where the bathroom was easy access. It was there that I lost my top button to my pants, just as I was pulling up my pants! As I was wearing no belt, this would have been a minor disaster to remind me of other faux pas I experienced in school. I did not allow my Inner Critic to tell me it was the end of the world, or a sign of something bad, or a judgment of me. Instead, I approached a clerk (and I hadn't even been a customer on this visit!). I asked if they had a belt, thinking I would be a customer. No belts at this store, but she got me set with some strange foile and I went back into the bathroom to tie myself up!

Even with my belt fiasco, I just a minute late to meet my friend (and often I am late to everything!) for our balloon pickup. All 60 balloons fit into her van, too, which freed me up to go home, get lasagna and get into more comfortable pants!

After changing my pants and before gathering up the lasagnas in a safe transport set up,

I arrived at school with my lasagna. Found out I had chosen the right number of balloon clusters to fit on each table in the lunchroom, and got to see that the event was coming off nicely. And once I kept my commitments I did not allow my guilty voice to tell me I should do more (I said a gracious NO to staying longer at school, to seeing my son at his banquet. I did not "should" myself (too much!) about how a really cool parent WOULD have stayed to see their child have a good time. I most wanted to get some exercise in, take care of myself with loving exercise... but did not feel comfortable saying this!

And, I had volunteered to do cleanup but I asked folks, am I really needed? They reassured me they did not. The only indecisiveness remaining was inside of me... As I admitted to myself that I really did not want to go and come back to the school to volunteer (I felt I had done enough already...) suddenly I knew my window for getting exercise might open up if I left ASAP! I broke away with urgency about getting exercise, but telling folks about my article that needed to be done!

I did have the chance at home, to make contact with the perfect expert for my article. But that took just short minutes. Before I left home, my expert sent me a confirming email that would be just what I needed to make the minor revision to my article. I could leave the house in clear conscience! And I had the gift cards inserted into a Christmas card for each teacher.

I got in my swim! It felt lovely doing laps and watching my anxiety leave my psyche.... There was this bit of residual guilt that I held onto, because part of me still had not let go of the hope of keeping my initial commitment to return to school in time to help clean up after the banquet. I let myself enjoy the water to its fullest. Then I headed back to school (early) to get my son, my lasagna pans, and to drop off the cards for his teachers.

The entire day was a series of successes that were all about self-acceptance! Most importantly, basic self-acceptance allowed me to refrain from overplanning my day. This allowed me to do a dynamic balance of preparation and spontaneity, which reflected who I really am. Being authentic is a gift I received from allowing my HP more rein in my life.

In Momma's Kitchen

Zena woke late the morning after the police came and took her momma away. It was her dad's voice that woke her. She jumped from her bed to see who he was talking to. When she poked her head outside her door, she saw her dad sitting on the overstuffed sofa, talking into the black phone. "I won't be in today," he said. "My wife has taken ill. I am not sure how long she will be gone. No I don't have a babysitter, yet."

Zena had never had a babysitter. What might a babysitter be like, she wondered. Maybe she would be nicer than her mom. Then again, maybe a babysitter could also get mad and get very confusing. Better not to think about that. Maybe her dad would not go to work ever again, and stay home with her instead. That would be nice. Dad was quiet and liked to tell silly jokes.

Zena climbed up beside her dad, her feet straight out in front of her. "Uh-huh. Right. I should be in tomorrow," her dad finished. He hung up the phone. So much for that idea.

Zena wiggled her feet, and wrinkled her nose. "I'm hungry. What is for breakfast, Dad?" she asked. "Can we have toast and bacon?'

"Eggs, kiddo, got to have eggs too. " Dad said. He motioned to her to follow him to the kitchen. "Know where the eggs are, Zena?"

"I know how to find the cereal," she offered. "Mommy said it was OK to make cereal for myself."

"She did, did she?" said Dad. "One day Zena you'll be making other things for yourself. I am not good at cooking, but I can give it a try. Want to see what trouble we can get into?"

"In momma's kitchen?" asked Zena in surprise.

"Yessirree," said Dad. "It is all ours for today and for every day until your mom comes home."

is it you or me that has the problem here?

One of my ways of coping with my mom has always been do do mini-improvisational sessions with myself.. in anticipation of future conversations with her.

Like "What if she says, X?" "Well, what if I were to say, Y!"

I know now that because I am seeing her system's poison more clearly and carefully unplugging from it, that my nada's using all her arsenal to try to get me to behave in the old way, and fight for intimacy.

But I do not want to be intimate with someone who can give a quick one-two sucker punch and then morph into a Sherman tank!

I am changing and I don't have any particular interest in becoming a war tool myself. If I stay simple and small and plain it really does not matter what she chooses to dish out. Just have to open my mouth and let a gentle but firm spirit speak out simply.

But back to preparation and improvisation. Just for today, I have a few universal, one-size-fits-all statements. Like "Which one of us has the problem here? The one who is pointing out a fault, or the one who has it?"

Even more simply, and great lead-in: "Who is at fault?"

One day I want to say this when some negative condemnation of me or others comes up and it is from the past....that is long gone, unchangeable: "Wow, you have a pretty big job there, mom." She'll go, "What?" and be temporarily derailed. And from that she will be actually listening and I might just say whatever comes up spontaneously.

For now I imagine answering with, "Yes, you are either doing a phD in nuclear family history, or you are busy finding fault with everyone but yourself. That is a huge job, because you are just one person and I am not going to help you with this project."

I can hear her now, going off like a firecracker!

To which I can say simply. "At my ripe old age I have learned one thing about myself, mom. Know what it is?"

If she is listening still I can then say, quietly, " I am conflict avoidant. So I have to go, until we can both discuss this without taking digs at each other. You with me on that?"

And if she is not, then I have to say something on this order: "Sounds like we have conflict then. I really got to go, because when I work I need a lot of peace in order to be creative and focused. Take it easy!"

Turn the Other Cheek? Only to fart.

It is a time of awakening for me.

I'd not realized until about six months ago that mom (nada) was painting me a black sheep in my family.

Now I seem to be fully black, and it was done behind my back, without me able to defend myself.

Oh well, I am going to go on growing and knowing I am just fine, because I am bursting to become who I was mean to be. I just need more room!

I have become aware that I need to be transparent about setting boundaries, and creating room to be fully me. I need to point out where I begin and end, openly and consciously. In the past I have pulled myself in, like a folded umbrella, so as not to take up too much room, and be taunted.

I thought "being a good daughter" meant that I "just had to put up" with some treatments. Be tough. Laugh them off, etc. But by doing that, I was condoning the behavior. And when I got angry, then she would act as if I were the mean person and not her. And I have learned to speak up, hang up, and let go of my anger, in order to be kind, and to avoid being blamed for our conflicts.

OK, how do you not have conflict with a Sherman tank?

Last night my mom called me to thank me for a phone call I had made to wish my dad a Happy Birthday. She was a great tank and she was not going to give me access to my dad on his birthday. Instead she used the conversation for her own peculiar end.

What were her goals? Conflicted at best.

I opened the conversation to something normal, by sharing that I was at work on a writing deadline, a piece on an herb, for a national magazine. One it turns out she had never heard of. That was fine. Did I say something that made her feel "less than"? Was that why she suddenly told me, and I could feel her tongue saucy between her lips, " that I was not smart enough or "deep" enough to be an authority on herbs for the article I am working on now. All I had said to evoke that remark, was that I cannot rely on my own knowledge for my articles. Just like any other journalist, I need sources. I cut that one short with dignity and said, "the issue is not one of depth or intelligence, it is that I am not an expert."

On one hand, I could have let my mom's own stupid commentary go, but as I say this is a time to be awake.. and to set boundaries about how I see myself and to redirect the tank. Speaking up gave me time to really see how much fun she thinks it is to put me down! And how she takes any admission of humility as an opportunity to one-up me. Weird stuff to do to a daughter.

Here I have to say this: the conversation was ostensibly one in which I thought we were looking to make up, make peace from one that was downright nasty earlier this week, in which she turned on me, from being funny to being angry and hanging up the phone.

Somehow, in this conversation I got called Zeenie, Weenie... too. That happened because she had something in my name, that really I should never have given her. She is not entitled to use a membership card I paid for; it has my name on it. So she decided to play with my name. "I use your card, it says Zeenie.... on it..." And she waited while I said nothing and just listened. Then added,, "Zeenie Weenie.."

There are no folks in my life that call me by a "nickname" or "pet name", except those whom I invite to call me "Z". As mom, again she feels like she has rights to "belittle" me, even to call me a name she knows I do not like. It is fun, for her. And I know better than to let her know it gives me a rise.

Jeepers this is creepy. A mom treating her daughter like this? And I am basically a good person!

But wait.... now I see why the conversation went to the end it did. Yesterday the ending did not seem logical.

Now I see that when she mentioned she had been going through my old school papers.....I had an ah-ha moment. She has been painting me black because she has been traveling down memory lane, and old data has become fresh in her mind. She thinks it is reality now.

My dear mom has been going through old papers from childhood. Report cards where teachers from elementary school commented about my behavior.

Teachers from over 40 years ago....had commented that I did not respect the rights of others. My mom had brought this up, to judge ME, not to learn anything about herself. She'd found "evidence" she could hardly wait to use against me. "You've always been this way," she was saying. And she was using this as evidence against me in the current day, ready to tell me that the way I was treating her fit right in line with what she (and others) had always known about me. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, because I was not respecting her rights... now, I guess.

I was not going to stay put for this tenderizing from the treads of an insensitive and overriding tank.

I am a person who puts great credo on my ability to change and adapt. I was being held captive to childhood mistakes. Why?

I asked her as kindly as I could what her intent was. Whatever she said next, I can't remember. It was just too preposterous to listen to one more word. I could no longer stay on the phone.

Turn the other cheek? No, toss the phone! It flew across the room and landed face down on the carpet. Thankfully it turned itself off, before my husband voiced his own anger and said, "Tell her to go to he@@". He is normally very civil and kind---but just won't put up with crap. As for me, I cannot adapt to things said about me that are false.

Only after the phone was back in the cradle and I was recovering from my having my sanity violated.... did I wonder this: Would my being raised by someone that was belittling and controlling and who did not know boundaries HERSELF AND who had rules that she did not enforce consistently.....result in my exhibiting boundary problems in school?

Possibly. But blame is not my game. Understanding is my goal.

Step One and Swiss Cheese (at the end)

I woke up not wanting to get out of bed. Now it may be because I was having an Inner Critic attack last night and I am learning that the only one who can get me out of it is me. That awareness right there is daunting. But before I can ward off the pain my Inner Critic visits on me, I need to be aware of it.

Oh I am powerless today. As in every day, but today I am especially aware of it.

When I begin with an admission of powerless, I take ahold of my real power, which is awareness. The Inner Critic is the one who thinks they are in Control of my emotions! Whoa! My first bit of power is in telling it gently, that It is not. I am not the God of Emotions either, so there's no more need for a power struggle between me and my Inner Critic. Amazing.

This bit of awareness of step one, means I have some wiggle room and I might enjoy a few moments of peace today.

But I am going to need my HP for awareness. I am going to need my HP to help me turn over my imperfection. With my HP's guidance, I can be aware and detach with Love, from each of my Inner Critic's thoughts. If I don't always detach from the Inner Critic with Love, HP will not judge me. I can also write down my Inner Critic's thoughts as it is practical. Catching ALL of them is not an indicator of greater success. Doing it for this one day is enough. Catching a few comments from the IC will make the difference I need, for this one day only.

The rest of this is process and a few gratitudes, and can be ignored. I found out from doing this exercise that my most important paragraphs (which at first came at the end) were best shared first, because they are the result of the process I share below!

Thanks for letting me share!

PROCESS

I am grateful because I had made a commitment to record my negative thoughts for a day. In my overcompensating way, I decided if I did this exercise, I had to do it for three days to get it "right", or get full benefit. Sigh. What a shitty exercise, but you need shit to make compost !

Well, I lost track of my three days and stopped recording after my husband got home, so my Inner Critic seems to have gone in for the kill. It doesn't really want me aware. It just wants to get me fixed in the only way it knows how, by pointing out all that is wrong. Of course, how helpful of it.

I am grateful for any awareness of the IC and one spark of humor. It took a lot of work last night for me to realize ALL that was happening was an Inner Critic attack. All through the baseball gam here is how he/she/it was allowed to talk to me: Oh, you weren't here last time, so you aren't a good parent; oh so-and-so is not here, it must be because they are avoiding YOU, Oh Jack's mom is volunteering at the concession stand; why aren't YOU there and look at you, just sitting here --Oh you want to work on an article while you are in the stands? Your husband is score-keeper and you could be helping there... Your article is going to be rejected even if you do that major rewrite, better give up now while you are ahead of that editor who likely doesn't even know what she wants. Aw heck, how can you win on this piece when the real editor at the magazine has not been hired yet?" And on and on and on .

I cried last night on the way to the restaurant after dinner, feeling undeserving of a nice meal out with my family. After all, what had I been doing since about 2 yesterday afternoon but having an Inner Critic attack? What a loser was. What bad company! Well, for once, I did not drag anyone else into helping me feel better. I just ate and listened and talked about the baseball game. My Inner Critic felt a little odd, like no one was addressing it or including it in the conversation! IC was odd man out. (Boy am I grateful for what I have learned in writing this paragraph! Another miracle from my HP!)

I am grateful to know the Inner Critic was created for a purpose. But. I am in charge now. Or will be once I become more fully aware of it, and begin to refute it and seek help in replacing its message with something else that is positive.

I don't need to refute every thought to get well. I only need the swiss cheese approach. A hole in its logic here, and hole in its logic there. Grateful for the friend who first told me about the swiss cheese approach. I hate swiss cheese, but for today I am very grateful that it exists cause without it my friend would not have had a verbal picture to share that would stick so well with me.

Accepting vs persevering

Accepting the things I cannot change. It begins by recognizing when I cannot change something or someone.

Others might tell me that I am getting the same old thing from my mom, and should give up. But even when the embers seem dead, something breaths life into my fire to persevere and be the daughter I want to be. And to hope that God's blessing will provide fuel for the right size campfire, for my mom and I to tell stories around. I've had those moments with mom. That I persevere in answering phone calls from mom (when it feels healthy to do so), shows you that intermittent reinforcement really does work!

On the positive side, the work with mom helps me to see where I need to do my homework in other areas. Showing up to carry a conversation frequently gives me a new growing edge. Or sheds light on some bad thinking in another area of my life, that needs discernment and change.

Right now, nada and our communication is just another problem in the gnarl of my depression/anxiety. This too shall pass.

BUT. Lately, very lately, I am seeing that I am in a no-win situation with nada. It may be that NO amount of perseverance will help, and in fact, my perseverance may prevent nada from growing. A reasonable person could actually throw in the proverbial towel. One day I may be that reasonable person.

My perseverance was possible because I made long breaks between communications with nada, and allowed myself to play with different tools and concepts between "assignments". I even find that practicing my thoughts out loud helped me. I never use the words I say, but saying them aloud often allows me to improvise with confidence in the line of "fire" with mom.

These days I am too depressed and emotionally exhausted to show up and improvise with mom. HP, are you making me rest long enough so I can show up differently with mom-like people?

I sure hope so.

Loving Zena.

Catch-22's: Retreating from the Retreat

I seem to have developed the good sense, or strong protective shield, to help keep people at bay who might hurt or take advantage of me.

Yet, what I have a marvelous knack for is stepping into catch-22's.

It might help me to make up a song about them. Just don't let it be a stupid song that no one can sing along to. Like the song that opened our retreat a week ago. It was so silly that it was embarrassing. I hate being embarrassed. I hate feeling ashamed.

Catch-22's tend to create shame in me. I am not sure why. I guess I can't use my usual right brained approach in dealing with them. Aw heck, they can't be dealt with in ANY way can they?

But I seem to have a knack for finding situations that I feel ambivalent about and then I tell myself that if I am a good, responsible person, I will show up to make a difference at these events. Like this retreat.

Which on some levels was a great experience. Or could have been, if I could have had someplace to retreat to. Cause it wasn't a retreat. It was a fully-scheduled event designed to stretch introverts. Or maybe not. There was a lot of information to take in, and great stories... but too much listening, and to cope in that kind of environment, I take notes!

Who takes notes at a retreat? Unless the notes are in a journal and are self-reflective.

Has anyone ever had a retreat in a standard American economy box hotel? A mile from the one of the most heavily-trafficked airport in the world? The folks that booked the event did a great job choosing a hotel out of the main flight path, I'll give them that. And I'll give lots of other credit, but I would call the event by a better name. A conference.

I need a retreat to recover from the overstimulation. And my poor roommate, she thought she signed up for a retreat too!
I am praying for her now, even as I am very glad that I do not have to fall asleep to a television set for a good long while to come!

Is Redemption Possible? Part II

My last conversation with my mom lasted all of seven minutes, in two installments. But even at that, she has had a lasting effect on the six days since then. I want her to have less of an effect on my equilibrium.

How many of mom's judgements of me actually belong in my thought closet?

Last Tuesday evening, she didn't take her long in call #1 to assert, "The family in New York doesn't give a crap about you." I still have no clue how that came up in the conversation!

I took my stand right there, repeating her words back to her. "You are saying they don't give a crap about me?"

I guess she had wanted to say those words a long time. She certainly did not want to rescind them. So, I asked her if she really wanted to believe that statement. Was it kind to say? Was it true? She didn't like those questions.

I've made a commitment not to fight with mom. But I could not I agree with her identification of "those people" (her siblings, for crying out loud), as giving only inferior love. Or that I was an inferior love relationship with my aunts and uncles. NO... the unspoken with nada, is the inferior relationship I have with her. Tuesday I kept mum about my sense of blame, which swings between my feeling of failure and righteous anger at her.

Next stop in our telephone journey. I ask a question I have vowed I will ask each time we talk on the phone, specifically about DAD's health, since he rarely comes to the phone of his own accord. Mom answers, impatiently, "Sure we're fine, dad is fine. I told you we were fine. I would tell you if anything were wrong...." She pauses as a new opportunity presents itself to her creative mind. She reaches deep, finds a place to judge again. "Oh, Zena, now you wouldn't tell us if things were wrong with YOU," she said. "You never do."

"What do you mean mom-- I never tell you about me?" I ask, genuinely interested to see what she could come up with.

"You didn't tell us when you were in the hospital!!!" she says, sounding proud to have some (aging) evidence against me.

Now I am wondering: Did she mean the last time I was in the psych unit, in 2005? Because I didn't tell her about that. During 2004's hospital stay, she couldn't refrain from her need to clutter my head with her OWN paranoid thoughts about who might be listening in on our conversation. Those concerns from her thought closet were not good to put in my own, and were not conducive to my mental health. By 2005, I knew better than to keep my promise to disclose all my vulnerabilities to her. For one, with three thousand miles between us, is it helpful to her to worry? I need the support when I come home and am working to stabilize myself. But no, she was referring back to 2003, over SIX years ago....when my husband was far too busy and concerned to call my mom. One could say, she was SPARED our devastation. Sigh. Do we have to go down that road again, when that was put to bed over five years ago? I guess so.

I tried to step away from argument again, and gently reminded my mom of the importance of staying in the present and letting the past be in the past. (Yeah, like that fits her agenda of coming up with excuses to use against me.) I'm not sure what I said that made her hang up.

Five minutes later, I'm in the kitchen, and she calls back. I answer. I am an optimist, it is my nature. Perhaps it is another chance for redemption?

No, she has called to prove me "wrong" again. I guess it was absolutely necessary for her to be right (and not happy). She snarls at me, waving her sword at my earlier recommendation she try living in the present. "Live in the present. Live in the present. You live a LIE. You haven't done anything FOR Us in the present. You don't care about us (mom and dad)...."


I do not consent to being held in thrall to her guilt (shame) and will not allow her words to lead me back to another place of inferiority, where I will never measure up. I've been evaluating that piece of clothing, and sad myself that we aren't able to have a healthy relationship. Odd that she would pick just that though to club me with, my secret pain I never name.

(Thank goodness for the power and clarity of a good step four. I've already done and inventory and spring cleaning with a loving sponsor and stay up to date on the CURRENT state of my closet. That old rag is one I have been re-evaluating, preparing to toss out, realizing it no longer fits.)

I put her on speakerphone, propped on the cutting board and sang a little song to her, sharing my love for myself. She hangs up.

I would love to have said, "Mom, those are your worn-out thoughts about me. I am not putting them in my closet. I can't afford to feel shame for things I cannot control."

I pray for greater compassion and the right words to say that will tame us both. Next time.

Is Redemption Possible?

I am not responsible for the distance my parents and I live apart. But I could be blamed for not bridging it more often. It would be lots easier if I could forget the decision made fifteen years ago, that I would NEVER fly out West alone again and suffer mom’s abuse (and dad’s tacit consent) without my husband present.

The last opportunity for face-to-face redemption came out of a need that was answered. My mom and dad came to visit in the fall of 2003, in the aftermath of my hospitalization. They spent a week helping me stay tied to reality. While I wanted mom to cheer me on, what I remember most was her silent suffering. Her honesty about feel inept. Her struggles to over-compensate.

There was so much she wanted to do, and somehow I could not let her. She did her best. She got me glasses I am afraid to wear. She took me shopping at Macy’s at a time that I could find nothing that suited me. My son was four at the time. She inadvertently drove him crazy to the point that he told her it was time for her to go home.

I kept the clothes through loyalty, though their style was not mine. I lost weight during the summer her brother W died. When I saw they would never fit again, I gave them away. Only one shirt remains in my closet from that time.

Out of gratitude I’ve stayed in touch and given her all the baubles of understanding and love that she can handle

But it all seems moot. The last words she flung at me by phone were formulated specially to tell me how my life was a lie. That I had given nothing to her and my dad. Nothing.

Likely one day soon, she will call and take the words back. Or try to. Normally I would forgive. But today I feel the stooge and it is time for me to exit this farce, this drama, which has no satisfying resolution.

I guess it is all because, for once I have decided to keep score. I started to do so once I realized she fit the much-maligned BPD diagnoses, and I really needed to decide if what I did for her was really helping.

Our lobby began, uncannily, with her suddenly going into my emotional closet and back to my college years , so she could do my sexual inventory. And do what exactly, reactivate shame? I side-stepped that, and eventually got my words right. “My mistakes are between me and God, mom.”

Next time, it was me who called to share news of the day: a late winter snowstorm enjoyed by her grandson. …. She had nothing to lose I guess, because she told me straight up, “I don’t care.”

It was some days later, she called for the release of apology, and told me she had been short because she had a toothache. I accepted the apology and moved on.

Later in spring my mom decided it was time for her to get honest with me again, about who I really am. “Your life hasn’t amounted to manure,” she said, using the vernacular. I did all I knew how to do. Having made the resolution not to fight any more with her forever, I got out a piece of paper. I became an interviewer, who needed to get my quote right. I read out loud to her as I wrote it down, hands shaking. Her answer contained another expletive, which I dutifully wrote down and read verbatim. What followed, thankfully was the click and a dial tone.

I know, I know, we are supposed to forgive and forget. But I made the choice this time not to excuse her. When she called back days later to make peace, I told her gently what that does to our relationship, and told her about the pattern I had observed. I told her I believed she could change and I would support that. She heard me, because I put her on speakerphone, and that made me sound different enough for her to pay attention.

Well, they say that when one party in a relationship changes, often the party that does not want change will flail and fight.

Each conversation since then, I’ve spoken the truth. That the hurting needs to stop. I get honest, and she gets even.

Not able to face that she hurts me and it is a pattern she needs to change, she wants to leave me holding the bag of garbage taken from her closet, telling me it is mine. All mine.

It all came painfully clear this Monday. I was stunned when I heard her voice, sounding like a cat that had swallowed a baby sparrow . “I raised you right and you turned out wrong.”

Maybe she was joking? This was so absurd it didn’t warrant a rebuttal. I did what I do now, when I am speechless. I repeated her words and she AGREED with them! I was so confused at the total inappropriateness of her trial balloon, that I could only be grateful when she hung up.

I was left with these thoughts: What the F? After all my faith and hard work?

Inferiority, Not in MY closet

My conversation with my mom last night lasted all of 7 minutes, in two installments. But even at that, I am getting fed up , even as she has less effect on my life.

It didn't take her long in call #1 to assert, "The family in New York doesn't give a crap about you."

I took my stand right there, echoed her own words back to her. "You are saying they don't give a __ about me?" She insisted on each word. So, I asked her if she really wanted to believe that statement. Was it kind to say? Was it health promoting? Was it true? No she didn't like those questions. Tough tulips.

But I was not going to consent to her identification of "those people" (her siblings, for crying out loud), as giving only inferior love. Or that I was an inferior relationship with them. NO... the inferior relationship was with darling nada.

Next stop. Mom's answer to a question I have vowed I will ask each time we talk on the phone, consciously, about DAD's health. "Sure we're fine, dad is fine. I told you we were fine. I would tell you if anything were wrong...." A new opportunity presented itself to her creative mind. She reached deep. "Oh, Vicky, now you wouldn't tell us if things were wrong with YOU," she said. "You never do."

"What do you mean mom-- I never tell you about me?" I ask, genuinely interested to see what she could come up with.

"You didn't tell us when you were in the hospital!!!" she says, gleefully, proud of her aged evidence against me. Meanwhile, I am thinking: Did she mean the last time I was in the psych unit, in 2005? Cause by then, I knew better than to keep my promise to disclose all my vulnerabilities to her. In 2004's hospital stay, she couldn't refrain from need to clutter my head with her OWN paranoid thoughts, that were contraindicated for my mental health. But no, she was referring back to 2003, over SIX years ago....when my husband was far too busy and concerned to call my mom. One could say, she was SPARED our devastation. Sigh. Do we have to go down that road again, when that was put to bed over five years ago? I guess so.

In the end, I just gently reminded my mom of the importance of staying in the present. Yeah, like that fits her agenda of coming up with excuses to use against me. When I could no longer put up with her voice in my ear, I put her on speakerphone and went on about my business. She hung up. I moved on in cleaning up the kitchen.

Five minutes later, she calls back and I answer. I am an optimist, it is my nature. Perhaps it is another chance for redemption?But no, she has called to prove me "wrong" again. I guess it was absolutely necessary for her to be right ( and not happy). She snarls at me, waving her sword at my earlier recommendation she try living in the present. "Live in the present. Live in the present. You live a LIE. You haven't done anything FOR Us in the present. You don't care about us (mom and dad)...."

(Thank goodness for the power and clarity of a good step four. I've already done and inventory and spring cleaning with a loving sponsor and stay up to date on the CURRENT state of my closet. My mom's old rag is long gone.)

I do not consent to being held in thrall to her guilt and will not allow her words to lead me back to that old place of inferiority. That piece of clothing was removed from my closet a long time ago.

I put her on speakerphone, propped on the cutting board and sang a little song to her, sharing my love for myself. She hangs up.

Next time I hope to say, "Mom, those are your worn-out thoughts. I am not putting them back in my closet."

Therapeutic Double Bind

I've been eager to begin sharing my experiences learning about the Inner Critic.

Only recently, have I discovered the (final) linchpin that resulted in my emotional illness--an unexamined and unquestioned Inner Critic...

Bibliotherapy was again at work, in my local library. I went looking for Wayne Dyer, instead I found Hal and Sidra Stone.

The book that found me, the first week my son was back in school, was "Embracing Your Inner Critic, Turning Self-Criticism into a Creative Asset."

This is not a new book, but it puts words to an experience that used to mystify me. In reading about the Inner Critic, I realized that mine was largely derived from my mom, who only ever judges others and never looks within. I realized her pathology is a Judge gone wild, that I internalized and overdeveloped into an Inner Critic that is not discernment but a voice designed to keep me from growing into an actualize adult. Sound familiar?

At this point, I am seeing my job as not being to rid myself of the Inner Critic, but to observe it and learn about myself through it. I also have the sincere desire to help it become a strength, by doing what I do in my job as a parent. I catch my son doing things right, so he can help himself learn any new skill, starting from trial and error. I see it as my quiet job in parenting myself, to catching that Inner Critic doing things right. Well, first, just observing it at work and seeing what can be harnessed for good. For the Inner Critic, more than any child, is very sensitive to criticism.

The truly interesting thing is this: the Inner Critic was developed by each of us in order to protect us as kids. It is the voice inside us that we developed, in order not to get caught doing things "wrong".

One of the the things I do as a writer, is to interview people and write down what they say. After I recognized my mom was never going to get well and be the mom I wanted in the world, I decided that I would at least use our phone conversations as material for story. Well, I did that the very first conversation with her, in which she shared that she wanted to send me a wig to cover up my gray hair. That was my first humor piece!

In the past six months, I've put my mom on speaker phone in order to distance myself from her belittling commentary, which has come on hard and fast, now that I don't play her games as much or try to make things normal any more.

After reading this book, I see that I can use even our bad conversations to learn more about my Inner Critic.

I hope I have the chance soon, but suspect I may have given my parents too much homework, even as I don't expect either of them to change.

Just before Father's Day, I pointedly asked my dad (who I only get to talk to once or twice a year)... if he can do anything at his end to make communication possible between me and him. Then after having one too many one-on-one's with my mom, and seeing a resurgence in the old pattern of abuse at my expense, I sent my mom and dad the letter in which I casually identified my mom's aggressive meanness. Somehow I also fit in my usual "looking for the good..." But it was lost on my mom... Both conversations upset the family apple cart. Lots of over-ripe apples!

After her last "hang up", I decided to let her know that she likely would have a hard time getting ahold of me. I sent my mom a postcard saying I would be unavailable until after school started.

In my mom's eyes, I am not supposed to have communications on my terms--with healthy boundaries. Maybe that is why my mom has not called.... in over three weeks. Interestingly I find I have peace of mind, in this wordless space between us.

Or is it because, in spite of it all, I have been eager for her call ever since school started. I have my pen and paper handy.

Oh well, either way I win. If she calls, I get a new chance to learn about the Inner Critic that learned its role at her knee. If she leaves me in peace, I get to learn about being kinder to me. This is called a therapeutic double-bind.

My dad, a dishrag?

I have to admit, I have a very hard time when some folks in recovery from childhoods tarnished by BPD, call the non-BPD parent a dishrag.

But it works at one level.

Like many surviving children, I have been mad at my dad. With mine it was because he never stood up for me, at least not in my presence. He was not a dishrag. He was conflict-avoidant. My dad was an engineer, a man good with numbers, a good provider. A man of few words, he was shy. He was also an innocent in the world of words, someone who I strongly suspect had his own abusive childhood. He thought that silence was the best answer to crazy behavior. I firmly believe he thought he had changed his family legacy. My dad did his best. As did my mom, "nada" or not.

My dad, to his credit, did have my mom committed to a mental hospital when I was four. I think that is one reason I came through my childhood as resilient as I did.

But in the 1950's, patients were beginning to have rights. And fathers did not have rights yet. I am pretty sure that my father faced this fact, he had married such a smart and wily woman, WHATEVER her problem was (and they didn't know about BPD then).... that he would likely never have custody. He was in a catch-22. If he wanted his kids to have a snowball's chance in hell, he needed to stay and be a good provider. Because my dad's myth was that MONEY prevented abuse. Of course, to be able to live at peace with the unsolved problem of my mom, and keep the faith in his myth, he tended to discount her damage.

I forgive my dad for this. What in God's name would I have done in his situation?

I am grateful, as I say, for my resilience and the native intelligence of both my parents. And I am grateful for all the books I read in childhood that distracted me from the elephant in the living room that could have taken over our lives if we chose to fight it.

crazy daughter refuses to fight back

My mom often implies that I am crazy.

Or tells me that I haven't grown up.

Today, I know that in our phone conversations I am the adult. The only person home, who has a compassionate perspective for myself.

And so, when I am told belittling things about myself I am less reactive. A person with BPD is a dry drunk, really. In Al-anon, they tell you how fruitless it is to take a drunk seriously when they have negative things to sling your direction. Especially when those negative things are about YOU, and you are a person in their intimate circle.

Hurt people hurt people.

I have stopped allowing myself to be hurt by her so much, and so I have less reason to hurt her "back."

So she needs to project her unhealed story onto me. Do I really need to take that seriously any more?

The ideal would be for me to say, "When you speak to me like that mom, there is an emotional response I feel that tells me it is time to go. I am going to go, now, because what you are saying is not only untrue, but it is hurtful."

But I can only say that if I am relaxed and not reactive. I can only say that whole two sentences if she is listening.

These days, all I can do is put her on speakerphone so her voice is not inside my head. When I leave the phone upright on the cutting board in the kitchen where I am working, she can speak her peace to the air and I can go about cutting and preparing food, which is more creative and peaceful.

I can pray, say my serenity prayer, sing a song... and she can realize suddenly that her words are not the only thing that have my attention. And this is good. This creates the tiniest room for a change in behavior.

what is crazy?

For at least a year, I would see him entering or leaving our neighborhood and it just drove me nuts. I didn't even want to talk to the man, I was so judgmental. The old man, his son and the donkey, indeed.

I thought the older bald man pushing the baby carriage was crazy. Especially when I saw that there were two dogs sitting in it, side by side. Didn't they need exercise too?

But then there was the day in early May when I was on my bike, turning into the driveway of my therapist's office. I was struggling to hold onto my own sanity. That day, I was close enough to see that the one black dog had gray jowls. So I asked the owner about what had long had me in thrall.

Turned out that to take the young dog for a walk would leave the older one, a close buddy, home alone without companionship. This buggy ride was a compromise the three had come to, for the waning years of his older dog.

Talking to him about what I had thought was crazy from a distance, brought me back to reality that day. The man's compassion for his dogs, and my own ability to understand, helped me to accept us both and to feel more sane as a result

No time to burn bridges

I want to tell you that you I cannot take your advice and write my parents off yet. I am going to keep making my amends, until that process is done and I have had enough.

My mom's stupid personality is not going to make me cut off my nose to spite my face. I am going to be who I know myself to be.

Writing her off right now FEELS to me like spiteworking. Because it would have a painful boomerang effect for ME. With regret for things unsaid. I know that about myself from having experienced the three deaths in my life of people close to me. My grandmother (mom's mom, who thankfully I had visited and connected meaningfully with as an adult, so few regrets). My cousin, who died in her sleep ( I had made a point of talking with each other right after 9/11, and she died a few months after)...my uncle Wally, whom I did not communicate with as frequently as I know now was really necessary for me to do. I needed to have closing communications with him.

Then there was my friend Maia, who I had emailed the day she died. She and I had needed to talk more often and I had NOT done my full part in hearing her voice and calling her.

You do know that calling my mom regularly is a recent decision? Mostly I am renewing my efforts so that I can learn what I need to about my mom, her karma, and my dad. Those are important to MY story.

My mom's younger brother, Wally, told me he never called my mom. He let his sister call him. The conversations went better that way. He knew I needed to know it was OK not to call my mom, even to be a good daughter. For many years, I honored my uncle Wally.

I followed his example, and found a lot of peace. I have learned a lot over the past 17 years of practicing this principle: Don't call mom, let her call me. I have conscientiously followed his advice, with a few well-considered exceptions, all these years (Father's Day, Mother's Day and my dad's birthday as some exceptions) but now that Wally is gone I have had to change my mind. Uncle Wally's kind edict no longer applies. What if, while I am waiting, she up and dies? I can't hear from her then, and I will have regrets at what is unsaid.

When my uncle died two years ago, he revealed his own unhealed elements, so sadly similar to my mom's. My contract with him, is over. He is in the other world, and his life is an example to me of what happens when people wait for others to call them. Get this. His idea was to keep his dying a secret from me.

I think the fact that I took his advice created other problems in the way I relate to my parents.... that need some work now.

Waiting for my mom to call and taking that chance that I will not get to talk to my dad, before I get the sudden news that my dad has died, or waiting for my dad to give me news, is too hard on ME.

You see, my mother's story is important to me, and so is my dad's. If it is important to me, then I need to do something about it, no matter how inane it seems to others. So my mother DOES say crap, that is hurtful. I call her on it and I am off the phone before she can do it again. Unless I have a particular point to make, and then I put her on speakerphone and wait for my chance to say it. . These days, if it is SHE who hangs up the phone on ME, cause she can't stand what I am saying in my radical and kind honesty, well, I consider the click of the phone in my ear, a VICTORY. Of course, there is pain in war. I feel it, but I am a victor, because I am finding out more and more that I don't need her approval anymore. I don't even need her good response in order to heal. Guess what? When she calls me back to apologize for her behavior, it almost does nothing for me. It only lets me know that I am doing the right thing. Her apology no longer brings me false hope. Her apology tells me to continue on, lancing boils and doing surgery.

It matters not one iota if she thinks she has me hooked into communicating with her. I KNOW what my intentions are in the conversations. When I am ready to back off of this effort and finally throw in the towel, I won't need to look back, because I have done everything possible. I want my dad to hear the truth from my lips, and I know my HP is guiding me towards that.

In conversation last week (initiated by her) I did not fight back when mom tried to guilt trip me about how bad a daughter I am, and how I treated my parents like crap as a teenager (implying of course that my dad doesn't WANT to talk to me...). In the spirit of a true warrior I pick my battles and keep my strengths hidden. Instead, I change the whole game when I said, "The phone works both ways, dad can pick up the phone to call me, as easily as I can call him." She got snide with me, struggling again to make me look like the bad guy. I just went about my kitchen work with her on the cutting board. It was all just stupid posing. I didn't even have to get mad at her. More story material for me. Her cards are all marked to me.

Dad heard the truth yesterday. Just relaxing into the moment (hearing my mom feeding stuff in my dad's ear) I seized the short time alloted to me on the phone, knowing he had me on the phone alone (a person using their mouth like she was, has no ears to hear a conversation, even if she is eavesdropping). I told my dad he had three letters coming to him at his mailbox. (In this way, he would know that I do send mail to him, even if he does not receive these letters). I asked him what he can do at his end to make a real conversation between us possible. I said, knowing I was putting him on the spot but also knowing he had it coming. "What can you do, dad? because I am powerless and I love you."

Now, if I don't receive an answer to THAT question, with actions that follow..... in the next six month-- I will do my next best and write these folks off with as much love as my HP can infuse in my heart.

I have made a commitment to myself and my HP that I will do my best.

I am grateful that you cared enough to write. I want you to know that your words, telling me to stop contact with my parents are also from my HP, and they will definitely help me in my decision, when it comes time to turn it ALL over to my HP. You are correct, I believe. The time is close.

How I got my breath back

From the tornado watch on Good Friday, I had been keenly aware that the final hurdle was my friend Maia’s birthday looming ahead.

Alas, awareness, compassion and discernment became became weaknesses as they held me in thrall to events that were about to unfold. My analytical mind and the creative drive of a story teller, did not help me turn the pages quickly or move beyond angst until current events played themselves out.

April 20th’s visit with Dr. S. was a place to check in and for the good doc to express his confidence that I would prevail. By this time in our relationship, he was able to mirror me well, unlike my BPD parent and the narcissistic GW.

Still, anticipation had me wanting to speed things up and get past each landmark that lay ahead. To succeed in the face of challenges known.

The first tangible thing to show up for was my PAB meeting that same night as my appointment with Dr. S. I tried to act like that was no big deal, when I showed up that evening, ostensibly ready to become president with our next meeting in August. But when I heard the news of big budget cuts and the district's plan to let go of some of the lowest paid instructors, I lost my enthusiasm and a big piece of optimism. I stayed up too late coming down from the energy and surprise of the meeting.

I tried to stay positive and keep my commitment to serve, but by next morning, the lack of sleep made my resolve disappear.
Next day’s emails showed me that my job on the board was not going to have its usual end-of-year let down. Our schools were in a state of change and the communities were changing in the fall and we were looking at losing our parapros.

That is when I found myself wanting desperately to resign from the PAB presidency, knowing that I did not know how I was supposed to lead! I had enough presence of mind and enough integrity to know that resigning now would be leave me feeling without strength or merit. I had to wait until I had real perspective so I could resign responsibly and with a clear vision and fewer distractions.

Ahead of us lay hearings for parents and first priority was to promote folks showing up to those hearings the following week.

By this time I was looking even more carefully over the terrain of my life and I saw that this particular time in April, when my husband had been away, had a fracture line all the way back 19 years ago, when I had had that mental health crisis, following our move from Germany to New York state.

I also lost my job in San Diego nineteen years ago. That’s when I first learned the full story of Holy Week, when I showed up for services Good Friday, with a good friend from work and his wife, the week I was fired from a job that my husband and I viewed as security.

Saturday, (the 25th of April)

I get an earlier than expected reminder of my responsibility to my friend F and her place in my mental health. F checked in with a rendezvous plan and I couldn't sort out what the appropriate response to her invitation should be. I decided let her help me (and herself) stay normal, by joining in on her outings with the kids. We met at Chuck-E-Cheeses, but it was just too much for me, that day, when I had shirked the big neighborhood garage sale too!

Earlier that day, Saturday, April 25, the university professor rocked our world, by shooting his wife. But only a select few people even heard about his actions that day. Most of the rest of us heard the following day. For me it was in church, and his name was not mentioned. Only the names of those who lost their lives because of his actions were named.

The day before the shooting we'd heard about the swine flu outbreak. Swine flu, when my husband does research with swine. Swine flu potentially impacting travel. George Zinkhan’s plans to leave the country? My husband’s to go to Philadelphia?

So much uncertainty.

The aftermath of George Zinkhan’s shooting of his wife, was for me was to realize how close this tragedy came our lives. My son was in his daughter’s class at school.

In all this, I was feeling like present life was so big, mostly because of Dr. Zinkhan’s impacting parents at my school and their ability to show up and be optimistic. It was that wrinkle in affairs, that eclipsed my optimism or even the reality of showing up in August for a stint as parent advisory board president. With our school directly affected by the Zinkhan shooting, I also felt that it was not appropriate to push parents to hearings unnecessariy! If I pushed, I was not being sensitive to the emotional climate of my school.

Checking in with two other friends, whose daughters were in a play at Clarke Central, were in drama with the best friend of Zinkhan’s slain wife. I saw the play that Laura and Jeannette performed the week after the slaying, when their teacher had to leave them the final week of the performance, to attend to matters of grief and crisis.

All the weeks of the 27th and the week between the boyscout trip and Mother’s Day I cannot show up to school.

So the week of the 26th was just too full of the unexpected, with too much meaning for me personally. The hearings about budget cuts, that I felt I should show up for, a local parent at large for shooting his wife, swine flu on the move, when my husband’s research is with swine…

I am a person who does best shooting from the hip, but here I just plain didn’t want to make time for action and speaking up to authorities in righteous anger, when I had commitments with baseball (and its erratic schedule), the desire to show up for one last bird walk, and the commitment on the solid waste task force now seemed over the top as well!

Bottom line, no excuses, is that I simply don’t want to be leading the parent advisory board in this time of change and when we will have a new superintendent and there is so much to learn about that is likely only to push my buttons.

To top it all off, the next weekend is the Boy Scouts big camp out, and I just want to feel safe and stable and not worry if it will rain, or be around a bunch of strangers. I decide to let the boys go without me. I let my closest friends in on my struggles.
The afternoon M and T leave for the camp out, I am feeling super anxious, when Kathy comes by; she hopes to have enough people turn out for an unexpected PTO meeting on Maia's (and her own) birthday, in which we will vote on whether to become a PTA!

The night the boys leave, I go to the Miracle Worker with my other "Maia Birthday" friend, and I see L. there too. Very meaningful for me. The other part of my weekend at home is that I finally take myself out for another imperfect haircut.

In hindsight, I see it is a downhill stretch for me, once I get through two nights completely alone (I just don’t see it yet).

Sprinting towards Philadelphia

The following week is the precursor to Mother's Day. Is it fitting then that I struggle with my mom? Sometimes it seems so silly and pointless to me to be stuck with her limitations in my head. I am supposed to love and honor my mom when she has treated me like crap? But of course, I send my card. And of course, I can't refrain from the final effort of calling my mom in the days before M.D. I get another dosage of unacceptable crap come my way, when she decides (after years of silence on the topic) to inject her morality into a sexual inventory of my college year. Nice, auspicious prelude to M.D.

I am glad to say that showing up Al-anon meetings leading up to Mother’s Day is what strengthened me, even though I am flailing and mishearing things, thinking I do not belong.

The tipping point is on Mother's Day, when I see myself get mad at the technology changes in our world, and Tycho orchestrating the purchase of an ipod shuffle.

I don’t call my mom on the actual day, but I keep my promise to Aunt T to call my Aunt M. From her and from another good friend in town, I find my prayers are answered; George Zinkhan’s body has been found. Now we have closure.

The next day, I decide to stop putting off my Spring cleaning. I ask Bonnie to help me do spring cleaning of my living room one day and the master bedroom the next. We finish up just the day before M’s trip to Philadelphia.

As Mike readies to leave, I find out the honeysuckle is blooming later than ever before. It is on a bike ride, that I chance to find their scent on the air, in memory of her.

I am glad to think that in a few short days, I will be sharing the out of doors with T's class in our end-of-year birdwalk. I know Maia will be there with me, in spirit, as I keep that commitment.

And so I make it out of the woods and give all the children, even Beth, a package that will help them attract hummingbirds to their backyard.

Wobbling towards Higher Ground

Easter passed. But I stayed stuck, wrestling with shoulds.

Monday morning I had to admit: my voice of objection barely etched the edifice of our public servants on the forum. I was not the voice of authority I had flattered myself to be. I saw myself as the canary in the coal mine and that other's well-being was threatened, if I had the response I did to our disruptive newcomer. However, to our program representatives, my continued emotional response identified ME as having a problem that I needed to see a therapist about! Maybe they were right.

I stepped back from full participation in our group, once I decided that I could not support the forum and it did not adequately care for my concerns. I needed to feel safe, and that responsibility lay with me. I did my best to focus on the good.

Boy, was I looking forward to the prospect of Holy Week’s triggers receding in my rear view mirror! Unfortunately, the structure of my real life did not fall into place immediately after Easter.

That Monday my son needed to stay home sick. Next day, I kept him home again. I did not return to routines, like exercise. Because I not have our forum to fully participate in, I wasn't as connected to my emotions.

Today I see that keeping my son home an additional day, fostered a link between my mental-health day and my son’s cold that did not help me strengthen myself. Wednesday (and T's return to school) came too late to regain my equilibrium. Without exercise and routines, I'd begun spiraling into poor sleep and intrusive night thoughts. I got too close to that place of dissociation and paranoia by Wednesday afternoon. That's when T came home from school, after two days of being “good” and kind to me in my vulnerability, to be a typical ten-year-old, challenging my authority with humor. That afternoon I simply did not "get" humor. I got FEAR (false evidence becoming real). I am just grateful I COULD call my therapist in a panic and begin to walk back towards understanding and away from the tipping point of my illness.

The symptoms of my emotional bottom had recurred to such an extent that it was time to act. My therapist decided for me (much in the way a midwife does when one is at a stalling point in the birth process) what needed to be done. She made clear that this was a time to use medications. I started with a small dose that very night. As a result I slept very well, so well that I had to cancel my attendance of a meeting of a parent advisory subgroup, at our school district’s office. My mental health crisis put this meeting into sharp perspective. It made no sense to show up to look normal and take that meeting seriously, after being so close to relapse.

Nor did I make my solid waste task force facility tour that same Saturday. I could not act as if I were a normal person, showing up to act committed, caring and interested in garbage. I acted as if I were a flake, instead.

Instead, I put the pressure on myself to show up later on Saturday for a lunch send-off for my friend’s husband. The following week he would be leaving Athens for pre-deployment training in the Midwest. (He would be serving in Afghanistan for 10 months, beginning in June.) What kind of friend draws attention to her vulnerabilities and doesn’t show up for a “real” test of support and faith?

On the other hand, I see how insistent I was "shoulding" on myself, goading myself into showing up for others at a time when I was decompensating. Afraid to isolate, I chose to put my mental health concerns aside to support a friend. I hoped this would push me back into normalizing. Yet, I also knew that I would not be able to share my struggles with my friend or lean too much on her. My friend would not be able to support me in my moment of need. NOT because of any shortcoming on her part. Rather because she must show up as a parent to her kids, and not sacrifice their well-being for mine. My friend, a single mom when her husband is away in the military, cannot be expected to be my support, especially as she lives across town and has two children not yet of school age.

It is also the very nature of emotional vulnerabilities: I have to handle mine in my own way and without dragging in too many different opinions.

Further, I would find my stress level going up, when she told me of her big plans for me to help her AND her husband in their respective writing projects. My gut told me that to help them would have to take its pound of flesh from my own writing focus. Would I be willing to sacrifice at some future date? (My stomach said "NO!")

As I looked ahead, I knew I had to regain trust of myself and stabilize before my husband went out of town again the last week of school in mid-May. Mid–May looked was a major leap away from where I was wobbling.

It felt then that "showing up" in support clearly was no a place for me to stand and rest, but had put me in queue to take on more work. To argue with friends, and set a boundary, during in their time of stability-seeking would help none of us. THIS was not the time to say “no” to the new expectations they had voiced.

I was looking for indications that I could have a time of peace, alone. I needed a step to sit on and gain perspective. Fortunately my scheduled appointment with Dr. S. was two days away.

Ghosts of Easters Past...and Present

Triggers.

I like to think AWARENESS helps me handle them. But if there is no time to relax after them, or more triggers are spawned before I get perspective... my emotional cup overflows.. in a bad way.

The first present-day trigger was simply my husband being away in New York state during Holy Week. His spring trips are good for his work profile—a specialized presentation to graduate students at an illustrious university. This year, the trip was extended by several days, so that he would have an opportunity to work on a grant proposal with the colleague who invites him for these talks.

It is only now that I can admit, with each of these trips I tend to take my responsibilities too seriously.

If only I could just let myself be a good enough mom and take care of family meals from breakfast to dinner. But no. I turn the experience into a trip to the land of "What If?" I imagine myself during these weeks morphing forever into a single mom, navigating the landmine I am sure will turn me into a BPD without my husband’s balancing presence. In short I become vigilant, making it my permanent job to refrain from becoming my mom! Worse, I tell myself I might fail. Take it to the hilt, imaging what life would life would be like if was unable to bring home the bacon, should my husband lose his job or even die. In short I use the precious time I have to myself to create a horror show, in which I compare myself to my mom, my husband and moms that do have to work to support their families, instead of being grateful that I have time to myself and the chance to see myself as a strong and independent woman.

The week M was away, I stayed focused on enduring his absence. I was proud I asked for help from my sponsor, even though I only know her online. I also I placed some of my emotional burden gently on the whole online group that I’ve been a part of for a number of years.

But because I was still looking for support outside of myself, I’d planted an almost imperceptible seed of doubt in my psyche, that unwittingly set me up for a fall. I was both grateful and ashamed (in the end) that my support team put me first, ahead of a troublesome newcomer to that forum. Guilt would come later, for the feeling of inappropriateness I would have in witnessing the group that I sometimes help oversee, come to my aid in my time of need. My need for the loop to function in my favor while my husband was out of town, ALSO kept me from finding peace in a more traditional spirituality that week , in keeping with the spiritual story of my forbears, whose tipping point is Good Friday. Guilt would come from that lapse in focus.

Early that week my husband was away, I encountered that newcomer to our recovery group online, a man from Australia who at the very least was a case of narcissism. He came in like a blast of brash wind, all ready to be the center of our recovery group’s attention. At first I welcomed him the same way I had learned to welcome any newcomer, and was concerned that HE could be vulnerable. This very newcomer would sabotage ME by week’s end.

He first fell in love with our group, only later to rear up at me when gently challenged to use our 12-step principles. I immediately found myself objecting to his need to take more time than anyone I had ever encountered. My unsaid reaction was, “I don’t have time for this. I need this group for mutual support. I want to interact with newcomers who at least start out being humble. ” He left the recovery forum even as I refrained from feeding his ego. Later, I had a change of heart and sent him a copy of my public share, in an attempt to befriend him and show him I too had vulnerabilities. That is when he blasted me in the most strident way possible.

He went on to over-empathize my situation., pathologizing me as a temporary single mom, trying to win me over in a way that felt phony. I was told by my sponsor NOT to correspond further with this man. I had to choose to literally sit on my hands as he advanced his efforts in befriending several of the people closest to me on loop, including my sponsor. He felt so much like a person with my mom's disorder, that I could no longer afford to share anything personal, for fear it would be used against me, by this virtual stranger.

Sure enough, he did end up misreading something I’d written in a public share. The last straw for me, was his offhanded comment that HE was the “opposite” of a BPD, and could understand our “clash” was due to the fact that I had the diagnosis. At the same time, I could not get the powers that be on loop to make a ruling that the man from Oz not be allowed back on loop. This was a transformative moment in my program, where I had a difficulty with the traditions.

It is my belief that the newcomer is only the most important person, IF they do not jeopardize the unity of the group. Unity is not represented by my opinion, no matter how good my intuition is. Further, and more importantly, I think I found out that an online forum can never function as a face-to-face group.

I kept sight of my strengths, even as I faced my fear that this person might not be in Oz after all, but might stalk me. This took me close to paranoia, but again, I successfully side-stepped that.

Still, I decided mid-week to feel like a part of my family back west and gave my mom a call. Acting as if she were the kind of mom I COULD call while my husband was away? Or thinking I was ready to move ahead in boundary setting with her. Instead I was zapped by her too. As soon as she realized it was me on the phone she said, “Oh have you called to get some gossip?” I was so insulted, allowing her words, to join the Oz's in my head. Perhaps two “BPD-types” were too much for me NOT to take personally. Still, the coincidence of being so deeply affected by cracked pots, has made me wonder just why I give up my power and discernment to folks like this, with their unique and fractured mirrors.

My husband came home the night after I talked to my mom. I can still see myself relaxed at our dining room table, drinking a glass of red wine at dinner. In my usual optimistic way, I was looking ahead to address the next trigger. Trying to minimize it already. Good Friday was the day our television was hit by lightning when I was eight years old. Only this year, putting memories of childhood in final perspective, did I imagine how an eight-year-old would take such a judgment from their mom. I was glad to find laughter, when I saw how absurd it was to blame a young child for not unplugging the television. Especially when lightning was so rare for the Pacific Northwest.

That was the night before the man from OZ was permitted back on our forum. (I’d already told the powers that be that he was a clear threat to our group and the work we do on loop as individuals.)

Sure enough, when he popped back in on Good Friday afternoon, the man from Oz looked just like a predator to me, sharing with us publicly that he had fallen in love with someone online. When he mentioned the name of a "new" friend who lived in my same hometown, I hit my wall of tolerance. I spoke up about my fears to my online friends, inadvertently sending my private comments directly to Oz. He blasted me so hard, I couldn’t read his words. My husband did instead. It was no relief really that my husband corroborated my feelings, that this man, even in an email, felt like a snake in the grass.

Whatever optimism I had coming into Holy Week, was like smoke as we waited for the tornado watch to end that Friday night. I was in my guilt now and fear was in my core.

Stepping Away from the Cliff of Relapse

Every twelve step Program is about acceptance. It starts with accepting what is uncomfortable about our situation, and growing to accept and love ourselves.

The irony of my life is that after all these years in program, each year I struggle to accept that school ends in mid-May. You’d think I’d have that down by now. But acceptance happens in stages. Or in layers, like an onion.

My excuse is this: each year, spring has a different set of challenges.

This year there was Little League baseball with two evening games a week, Boy Scouts and piano recitals. Those alone would have been enough for me.

If only my husband had not also not been called out of town three separate times this spring. Radical acceptance was needed.

One of my character strengths proved to weaken me this year, when my husband was away. I'd already found a great deal of insight (and even pleasure) this winter in revisiting my story with folks I knew and loved in my young womanhood. Normally I find it my sense of purpose is enhanced by awareness of meaningful coincidences.

But what usually brings me pleasure and insight, was too much for me once April hit. Co-incidences I'd left alone and ignored, decided they would have their way with me. Was I to be a victim and not a victor, for allowing them to make their power known to me? Could they lead anywhere, but to self-doubt?

The coincidence that I did care to recall was May 20th, the first anniversary of my friend Maia’s death. Radical acceptance was what I wanted, in order to honor her place in my life.

Turned out that there were repercussions from three other anniversaries of events usually too distant for me to want to empower. This year, they acted as triggers that rocked my confidence in the strength of my recovery. Being aware of my history was like looking over a cliff even as I took it one-day-at-a-time through my husband’s first trip out of town during Holy Week and the anticipated let-down the week after his return.

My first deep synchronicity is that it was also mid-April when I had my first bout with the emotional/spiritual illness I continue to respect today. In April of 1991, we were settling into New York state, after a move abroad, when I suffered a breakdown and ended up in a psychiatric hospital. That illness befell at the end of a life-changing year that had begun with losing my job during Holy Week. My job loss had accelerated a move to Germany, and cut off options for my husband’s easy return to California.

The third co-incidence came from a childhood memory that demonstrated the unsettling of my psyche, living with a person with undiagnosed borderline personality disorder. I'd been blamed for something that was an act of God. Radical acceptance of that experience was necessary for me to heal it.

Before my husband's first out-of-town trip, I was happily outgrowing my need for my psychiatrist, Dr. S.. I'd gotten so much into my recovery, that I had only the occasional need of a pharmaceutical for short-lived anxiety. Now, I had to accept, radically, my need for consultation with him.

Fortunately, I had one good coincidence working on my behalf. An April 20th appointment with Dr. S had been scheduled months ahead of time.

I brought my husband along for that visit, to help mirror my strengths, even as I admitted my need for Dr. S’s perspective and pharmaceutical guidance. In the two weeks prior to that appointment, I had already experienced several trigger events that challenged my ability to stay comfortably in the present. One brought me closer to my “edge” than I even cared to admit to the good doc.

I had hard-won perspective to share with my psychiatrist; thank God he demonstrated radical acceptance. He used our fifteen minute appointment to reassure all of us that I was resilient enough to get through the next five weeks.

Other big coincidences lay ahead. Our fifteen minutes was up.

I would be the one looking back to understand the triggers that lay behind me. I would share every detail when I came to my appointment alone (scheduled again without conscious planning-- for the next time M was out of town).

listing all the problems without getting tar all over my hands!

There have been times in the past where it helped to list all of my problems. And I could ask, is there anything more and know the list would end.


I will trust today that when I start this list of negative coincidences (that conspire to knock me off balance) that I will find an end to it!


Alas, because I was so ready to be involved in my community (as a writer who writes on more than one theme of interest, as a parent advisory board member, as a friend and volunteer at school, as well as a person on a committee that is looking at solid waste issues in a series of spring meetings, myy fingers in too many pies. Hard to know where to focus.

Ah then Mother's Day and the fact this is baseball season for my son. Should be fun, but I am just too preoccupied. Then there my son's piano recital, school ending in less than two weeks, And the games add to the chaos in scheduling that always takes place this time of year.



First there was my mom accusing me of gossip last month (early April) , when my husband was away. I personalize her attacks on me, far too much. Accusing me of being a gossip was so out of line!

Then, that same week there was a person new to my support system (of which I have been a part for some years, through thick and thin) who felt so much like a person with borderline personality disorder that I freaked out and wanted him gone. (He may have "only" been a narcissist. Bad enough!)

To top it off, that week there was the synchronicity of a threatened tornado on Good Friday, a very meaningful time in our family where a damaging event occurred in my childhood, for which I was blame.

The following Monday, my son was home sick two days as the spring weather of the Southeast gave us a blast of summer weather that always takes us by surprise. Complete with pollen, so that even when he was getting better he could not go outside. And I could not open windows to let in the 80 degree sunshine. Crazy making!

Interestingly, I lost my routine and my sleep, not the week my dear husband was away but the let-down week. So frustrating! Sleep is very big for me in maintaining sanity. I had a flare-up one of those afternoons that was inhospitable to be outside. My therapist encouraged me to wave the white flag of surrender and go back to taking my medicines, so that I would get the sleep needed for perspective on my life. Especially my life as a mom.

But another piece while I was suffering from fear of my illness recurring, and managing sleep, I had made a commitment to a friend to show up and have lunch the last weekend her husband was in town. A. goes to serve in Afghanistan in June, and will be gone a year. He is going through training in the midwest now. I was afraid of not being able to show up and be "upbeat" for him! I was not sure what was expected of me and my family. To show up for this friend meant that we did not show up for our school's annual spring fling. I am never sure of my priorities. Or that I am doing the right thing. To show up for this friend was a big feeling of obligation for me. Our lives really don't have a lot in common, but for the fact that we have mental health issues in our family and children. But she lives across town, is not a continuous part of my network of friends, because our boys are five years apart in age!

I did meet up with my lady friend and her family in a public place, and was glad I did. But it was not an easy thing for me to do. I was confused and I was not sure whose need I was meeting.

Monday, I met up with the doctor, reviewed the medicines, and he gave me great perspective on the gossip issue my mother had brought up.

(My hands are shaking right now, because my mom just called me to start to tell me her rotten perspective on the time when I was eighteen, and vulnerable! At times like this, I have to stop answering the phone! Writing this, for clarity is a lot more important!)

But Monday was also my parent advisory board meeting, and I am supposed to become an officer next year. A leader. Problem is I don't know what I am leading, and whether parents really have any real input into our school district's decision.

I came away cautiously optimistic about taking the helm in August when the new school year starts, and I stayed up too late that Monday night.

This set me up for another crisis, as I realized I might need to step away from this responsibility. And the uncertainties ahead, with our children being shifted now to their neighborhood schools (to reduce the transportation budget), and personnel layoffs
due to budget cuts.

Now, the following weekend, (the 24th) I am dealing with the fact that my friend whose husband is going to Iraq, asks me if I am interested in meeting up at Chuck-E-Cheeses (hate the place, ought to have said no) so that HER boy can have something to look forward to! Should have said no, but was afraid this was help being offered from my HP. Well, maybe it was, but I didn't accept it graciously. And my son really didn't want to go to Chuck E Cheeses, though he went willingly enough. Whose need was being met? After all these outings, my husband asks if we can go out to eat. Almost said yes, and then realized I'd had too much stimulation already. All this coping was driving me nuts. The boys go to pick a movie, and what do they pick? The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Yikes, for someone who is already overstimulated. I tried to watch it after dinner, but then had to escape. Almost like passive-aggressive, but I knew the boys couldn't take care of me, or understand. So I comforted myself and zoned out on the bed.

Next day, we find out in church, that several people in our community died. We don't learn details until my husband fills me in on a phone call he'd received the day before about a professor who was "at large" "involved in a shooting." Turns out, by later the same day the news has gone national, CNN. The professor killed his wife, and two others involved in our community theater. By Monday I finally know that one of the surviving children was in class at school with my son. Sat next to her, in fact.

Two good friends of mine, have daughters in high school drama class. Their teacher is best friends with the slain wife. The ripple has grown and I am trying not to rock too hard in its wake. I attend The Miracle Worker performance, last Friday night. The high school students' performance is absolutely real in its execution of the Helen Keller story. I am moved, because these students came through for their teacher in a time of crisis.

It felt over the top already and all around and through this time the swine flu issue is also airing on the radio.
Well, my husband's research has touched on the pathogens in swine manure. He does research in this area.

Gee are those enough coincidences?

Mother's Day. And the first anniversary of my friend Maia's death on May 20th.

And the fact that my husband will miss the last week of school (the same week of Maia's anniversary) and scheduling that week is up to me.

Meanwhile I am living life one day at a time, and wondering when I can have a larger perspective ever again!

using all the tools in the box

This is for me a time of year that is already full of change, so I have lost the thread on my blog that was able to look at past story and begin to make sense of it.

Let's just say that the Zena that has perspective is taking a temporary break from being able to make sense of her life and the exact things she SHOULD be doing. Program has something to say, even indirectly about "shoulds"!

I am using all my support tools right now.

After the week my husband took his trip, I took a slip and lost most of my routines. When I lost sleep and had too many midnight thoughts that were not taking me anywhere good, I decided it was time to talk to the good doctors and be willing to go back on medications, for as long as it takes to be able to see the good in my life, without so much wavering in my heart and solar plexus and of course, my overactive brain.

I was programmed for self-doubt by my mom. But I will get past this.

Other tools besides medicines are my program (emotions anonymous). And my appointments with my therapist, as needed.

Exercise. Attention to good thinking and looking for the good.

And being willing to ask for help.

Zena will return in a new form after she gets through this intense time of change.

Looking Back to Claim Hope, the BPD diagnosis

Thirty two years ago, I left home at age 18. I was able to persevere, and not run away, because that "small still voice" inside of me at 15, told me that most of the craziness would be resolved if I bade my time, loved myself and my brother (9 years younger than I), spoke the truth and left as soon as I was legally able. Easier said, than done for sure!

Once I left, I saw our common home just three times; two of those times was after they moved. The times I have stayed overnight with my family in their current home can be counted on the fingers of one hand.

In the process of doing my own healing, I have come to many places of peace with my mom over the past years. And it probably was because of my own hard work. My attachment to "having" parents, probably had me crediting my mom with making progress too. My mom is 75 now and my dad is 83.

Sometime this past fall, I came to realize I will not have the closure on my parent's lives, that I had always hoped for. You know, having them live in my home instead of in residential care; taking care of them as they decline. All that would be very unrealistic and even harmful to my husband and son, resilient as they are.

Today, I tell myself it must be a blessing that my parents live all the way across the continent from me here in the U.S.

If I am really really honest with myself, one of the main reasons I stay in contact is that I STILL want a relationship with my dad! I think I survived my childhood because of his wisdom. On the other hand, I can easily have anger at him for not making an effort to call me himself, be available to talk... etc. He never answers the phone since he retired some 17 years ago. My mom is the one who makes all the calls to me, too. If I allowed it, she would make my talking to him conditional on my "good behavior" in how I interact with her. Well, I pretty much say what I damn well please and hang up as soon as I catch a whiff of her trying to treat me like a garbage can. Net result, I almost never get to talk to my dad.

It took a lot: my brother's near crisis last fall ( financially) for me to confront that my mom would never be normal. After "witnessing" my mother's craziness with my brother through speakerphone (thanks to a coincidence and my brother's quick thinking) I was able for the first time to LISTEN to my mom do to SOMEONE else, what she has always tried to do to me over the years. I haven' t let her get away with it, and I realize now the freedom of having no financial ties to her.

(As I told my mom as all this crap was going down, "Mom, I thank God for all the money you never gave me!" For, unlike my brother, I have not received significant money from my parents in 32 years, except for the occasional generous gifts they have given their grandson (my only) this past nine years. I feel absolutely no obligations for those gifts, they are an opportunity for my son to expres gratitude and to write wonderful thank you notes.)

Because I am diagnosis-aversive, I do not like putting people in boxes. At all. So, over the years I have seen this diagnosis called borderline personality disorder. I had no interest in learning anything about it. Oh, I had one almost friend who told me she had it. Did I ask her ANY questions about it? NOoooooo. (Well, largely it was because I had my own issues to focus on, myself, in recovery. I have been given a number of diagnoses myself, because of the unfortunate way in which I respond to external--and internal-- stress. Thankfully, the 12-step approach, of healing in community, has helped me re-program myself for better self-nurturing.)

I also do not believe in Evil, I won't give it power in my life! I believe in program tenets: that there are choice always. But after this awful saga my brother went through over THREE months.... I was ready to admit my mom IS forever EVIL (and she can't make good choices when challenged). I was ready to surrender control from a whole new vantage point. Some of us get very playful in "program"; not only does admitting that we are powerless over our emotions (POME) help, but for me personally, I like this acronym: POOP. I am also healthier when I admit I am POOPed. Powerless over other people. After all, three thousand miles of distance makes me especially powerless....

But before the humor, I was reeling from the Evil. And ready at last to tell my therapist I was giving up on my mom and dad. Screw them both. That was the morning the book on BPD, "Stop Walking on Eggshells", written for the person in relationship with BPD, leaped off the shelf at me while I was waiting in my therapist's office.

Looking quickly at the checklist back cover, I saw my mom through the experience my brother had shared with me. This was the mom I THOUGHT I had left behind at `18, the mom I thought I was "transforming" through my good hard work, NOT. BPD is about an order of magnitude MORE power-zapping than dealing with narcissism.

Oh, the book had been there before, but not for me. In my mind, it was bad enough that my mom was narcissistic. That alone gave me family of origin (FOO) homework for the rest of my natural life. Up til that morning, I had refused to do any more homework.

I took Stop Walking on Eggshells (SWOE) home with me, and found myself completely at home and validated by everything that had happened in the past 32 years. A lot of what was in the book, I had learned by trial and error already!

Without the book, I doubt I would have identified how the worst of my mom's BPD had become reinvigorated by the fact that her son needed something from her. (For my mom, folks really needing her actually brings out her worst. She becomes sadistic and she projects evil on the person who needs here. I had forgotten that, because in 32 years, I had only gone to her twice in need. And had been protected in both cases, because I had good people in my life who met my need when she showed her inadequacies.)

My new admission of Powerlessness (times ten) transformed my brother's and my relationship. Now I am not in denial, and he is not trying to convince me our mom has schizophrenia! The perspective of SWOE has helped me to put ME first. I finally set boundaries, openly, with my mom on the phone four weeks ago, using the newest SWOE workbook. I put MOM on speakerphone in order to get perspective and do what I needed to do, without anger.

She has not called back in that entire four week, at least from what I can tell on my caller id. I have answered all the private caller phone calls that have come in, and none of them have been her.

Our relationship, or mine with myself, has changed. I hope it is not too late. BUT I WOULD like to know my father's story, before he dies.
m

Doing Recovery Slightly Out of Step

I am revisiting a "share" from April of 2007 today. It was written at at time when it became clear that I needed to be completely honest about my own haphazard recovery path from "emotional difficulties" some 16 years before. It came at a time when I was ready to "rock the boat" with old timers in my recovery community.

"Some fun tools sprang forth, or grew, out of the groundwork laid by the early Alcoholics Anonymous community.

It occurs to me that the word "God" was so important to the early founders, who were dealing with a desperate situation. There was little hope for the illness called Alcoholism, and they needed a path to recovery that was spiritual, but would withstand their OWN cultural conflicts. Early AA'ers knew the only path was unity, for it to be OK for practicing and lapsed Catholics and Protestants to sit at the same table and heal.

Over the years, I suspect folks got creative and even came up with acronyms for God, to make the word less charged, for those who would never again be Christians. One of us has mentioned "Good Orderly Direction".

Orderly. An interesting word.

Alas, for me, I was corrupted in my order, even as I started my work with program. I never was able to believe that even doing the 12-steps in exact order was a requirement to get well. Believe me I tried. But I cannot help my own family legacy, whose religious tradition was based on questioning. Questioning came first. Is a healing process in nature really orderly?

Today I want to speak up for others who may be struggling with program, its wording, its apparent order, even the language. "Defects of character". "Searching and fearless moral inventory." And more.

In my first 12-step group, AA members were closely consulted in that group's creation and involved in that group's early life. Many folks still in our group when I began, did rely on the AA book. I once had a copy of that AA Bible given to me, but the language, the culture didn' t speak to me. It was hard to feel OK about me when I read it, but I could feel the urgency of recovery prevent me from becoming distracted by arguing.

Even the EA book, the first generation when I began program, barely did it for me and this was 1991 I think. I am a big reader and our Big Book was like stepping into one of my early Soil Science textbooks, but without the science.
(Please forgive, I don't mean to insult.)

I now CAN accept that I am a Doubting Thomas. Even a Skeptic.

In the AA book, every page I looked at seemed to focus on the negative and I could not afford that at the time. No, I likely did not look at every page, but the language rankled too. And I could sense it had a disparaging, stereotypical view of women. Yikes!

So, naturally what would happen to a doubting thomas, who is wondering early on in the program, "Can I do this honestly if I do not agree with the structure we are operating in?" I was scared, because my psychiatric diagnosis could have been binding, if I couldn't find hope outside of anti-psychotic drugs. I knew I was in the "court of last resorts". When the answers were NOT in my meeting, I searched out things in my world to help me answer them.

I find a church and enter. The sermon is what I am here to understand. It was on the Dark Night of the Soul. What did the minister say, to this wounded broken person that I was... who was so afraid that she couldn't even do EA right, at a time when our group still stood in the shadow of the Giants of AA?

He said, that the recovery process weaves in and out, it takes the steps out of order. It is messy, but we get through because we are willing and we learn faith only by practicing to the best of our ability. His words were a bit as if he had given me a little
flashlight, and said, do the best you can, and use whatever tools you have. "You don't even need to use the pieces in order."

That is when I knew that EA's purpose for me was that I simply was not alone with my own flashlight. I could share my story, my discoveries, my questions. I could do the steps out of order. I could share in my meetings on any step, even if I was not officially working it yet. I had permission to do it my way.

Fortunately, in my early program work, I was also blessed with a sponsor that also thought outside the box.

An atheist, she was the only woman able and willing to sponsor when I joined my first group. We got so much larger in the years I belonged to that group, and I suspect it was because our group was inclusive, and allowed folks to be honest about where they REALLY were and allowed folks to feel welcome who were not being orderly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time I got my new edition of Emotions Anonymous' Big Book in 1995, I had become a founding member of an EA group in my new home town. With a full-time job, there was time for only had one meeting a week, and it was the one I started. That new generation of our own EA big book was a Godsend to me. You should see how marked up that first copy of my book is!

Some folks in program never want to see literature change from the version that "saved" them. Maybe they are just a little like people who swear by the King James version of the Bible and no other.

But when I compared the new and old EA books, I realized where I had been shut out. It was too much like AA's big book for me to really get much out of it. Likely, it may be that it was too charted for me, and sounded too much like "do this or be punished" messages I got as a child. I ditched the old edition, because the new one felt more inclusive and promised that the program would become accessible to more people like me. Today we have a book with even more open-hearted language, the book "It Works if You Work It".

As for me, I want to shout this from the rooftops to set my people free: I do the steps out of order. I suspect I must do them so, in order to reach some of the folks I find coming to me as a sponsor. Especially the young folks who have a low threshold for boredom and have problems with authority figures.

Tell me I am being politically correct (or incorrect). That is fine by me. Doesn't change the fact that those folks will have problems if I don't find an easy effective way to reach them. My suspicion, and I could be wrong... Young folks won't stick around if they don't see some creativity in the picture, a place for themselves to speak and not be condescended to. And for them to be allowed the peace to recognize their own vomit.

Some of you who feel successful in program don't realize how advantaged you are. Your spouses are in EA and AA. They have brought the work home for you, translated the parts that you found objectionable. For these kids it is not so. They have peers that will counter our programs, and these young ones come equipped with dogma-detectors.

The words in each step are a struggle for them. Some of them don't ask questions, but when they do, there can be a lot of anger in it. Anger that they may not feel comfortable sharing in face-to-face meetings. Anger that may keep them from coming back. Or that may fracture the unity in our meetings. I need to know how to deal with this anger, so I will occasionally practice being devil's advocate here.

I am not being stubborn, just earnest, and as open-hearted as I can possibly be. I welcome all helpful input, because I learn so much from each of you.

Blessings, Zena

PS: speaking of dance. I thought of a new acronym for my own
understanding of GOD:

Good, Old-Fashioned Dance