I didn’t mean to imply in last week’s post that I am sober all on my own – I have had much help along the way. But speaker Lila R. talks about the “proper use of the will” as described in our literature. My will gets me to a meeting, or leaves me on the couch; my will picks up the phone or doesn’t. And again, not implying that “I” did anything spectacular. But I do think it has to do with “fully conceding to our innermost selves that we are alcoholic.” I was hanging out with a guy from treatment in those crucial early months, and realized that he smelled strongly of pot when I picked him up. Smelled of pot and wasn’t going to meetings. When I confronted him on it, he said, “But I’m not like you, Jeanine. It's easy for you.” Well, no, it wasn’t. Walking in to a room full of strangers and raising my hand, introducing myself as “Jeanine, alcoholic-addict” was excruciating. But not as excruciating as the prospect of locking myself in my bathroom with a belt around my arm, or drinking beer for breakfast. I’d hit bottom. Rock solid, hope-to-never-go-back-there bottom and was willing to do whatever it took to stay on this side of the line. For me, the contrast between what it was like, and what it was like now was so great as to keep me on the path, one day at a time, especially since I took to heart, “Stick with the winners.” I surrounded myself with like-minded people and we forged the trail together, following the footsteps of those who'd gone before.

As I write, I’m wearing a necklace and bracelet of my mom’s. She was the queen of costume jewelry, and as a long-time Avon lady, she had tons. After she died, I gave some to family members and friends, some I donated to a women’s residential program, some went to Goodwill, and some went into a drawer. Nothing particularly classy, but they were Mom’s and act as a channel to her love and her sunny disposition. She liked sparkles and Christmas and getting “gussied up.” Along with all that jewelry, mountains of old photographs, and some dishes, I inherited from Mom a love of parties and holidays, a set of values that include compassion, practicality and an optimistic outlook on life. 

Something else I got from Mom, something that has required the inner work of our program, is related to external validation. Once, I introduced her to a date. The next day, she asked, “Does he like you?” Not, “Do you like him?” or “Are you compatible,” but “Does he like you?” - a recovery nugget on a silver platter!  

This recovery/discovery around my sense of self has been a process, with some leaps and bounds, some gentle nudges and some slogs through the mud.  Just recently I realized, after hearing one more “Oh baby” song on the oldies station, that I’d put control of my self-esteem in the hands (or eyes) of 15 year old boys (then 16, 17, or 20 year olds).  Yes, if I’d known better I would’ve done better, but what was I thinking? It goes back to that nebulous sense of self - I'm not sure who I am, so maybe you'll tell me.  And no offense, fellas, but the 15, 16, or 20 year old boys I was interested in weren’t all that interested in my mind. Like seeks like, and I was drawn to vulnerable pleasure-seekers like myself. As I got older, that refined to encompass depressed, introverted alcoholics. Imagine my surprise when I truly decided to stay out of the way, and my extroverted future husband showed up. Really? 

I'v been reading an article in a recent NYT magazine about an author's early move to NY, living hand-to-mouth in pursuit of her dream. Sometimes that seems exciting. Sometimes I chastise myself for my rootedness. I was inculcated with desire for stability (again a thank you to Mom), but I do sometimes wonder about the alternative. Then again, not too much.  I've thought about running away from everything I know, but who would feed the cats? And even in my dreams of wanderlust, I always come home. 

I'm also reading "The Remains of the Day," where the prospect of traveling outside his small corner of England is an emotional ordeal for the butler, though very understated of course. Throwing caution to the wind, or staying in the exact same spot?  I'm somewhere in the middle. 

And what is home? Mom's jewelry in a drawer and grandma's desk, with 1920's photos of family on the wall. Home is my husband on his computer, finding recorded gems, our cats scratching on the bedroom door if we've passed the time for their AM meal. Home is mossy sidewalks and falling asleep to the sound of rain on the roof.  Home is baking cookies for our daughter’s visits.  Home is the northern Oregon coast; the stark beauty of Taos (with my friend and her pups), and London (though I'm not there often enough); home is Wilshire Park, for reunions and early morning runs. Home is people - Christmas breakfast at my brother's (i.e. the ancestral manor, i.e. the house I grew up in) and Christmas day with my sister-from-another-mother's big clan. Home is Bernal Heights in SF with my spouse's dear family. Home is our travel threesome, wherever we've landed, coffee brewing and water boiling for tea. Home is a memory. Home is today. Home is the exhale I feel when taking my seat in a meeting.

I'm all over the map today, as my spouse enters the final weeks of cancer treatment, thinking a lot about this life we've built together and all that goes into it. What defines “home” for you? Is it a place(s) or a feeling, or both? Is is a particular person or memory, or maybe someplace you haven't yet been?

NOTE: “I’ve Been Sober a Long Time – Now What? A workbook for the Joys & Challenges of Long Term Recovery” is a 78 page workbook, 8 ½ x11 format, with topics (such as grief, aging, sponsorship) that include a member’s view and processing questions. Available at Portland Area Intergroup at 825 N.E. 20th or online through this blog page. If you would like to purchase online, you will need to go to the WEB VERSION of this page to view the link to PayPal.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information