In my on-going declutter efforts, I went through a notebook that contains writing from before and after treatment, including a rambling seven page (!) letter I wrote to my mom when I was "bribed" into detox in October, 1985: "So, I'm not on vacation. I'm at the Care Unit for 'substance abuse' (actually self-abuse)".  I go on for pages, alternating between taking responsibility for my current situation, as in "Don't blame yourself, Mom" to pointing the finger at my sort-of-ex (he'd gotten married, but was still graciously supporting me - why couldn't I just be grateful?), along with various instructions for the coming 28 days ("Call the heating oil company," "Please empty the cat box," etc). This all turned out to be for naught, as I signed myself out Against Medical Advice a few days later, but this letter of confession and instructions remained at the bottom of a pile in my  mom's desk, resurfacing after she passed.

More cringe-inducing is a letter I wrote my parents on the eve of my 15th birthday, offering my mom "a teensy bit of criticism" for being too protective, suggesting she "should realize I'm growing up and can protect myself." Good grief. She should've locked me in a bunker for the next ten years. I may have been growing up, but I certainly wasn't maturing.

At least I know where I got my tendency to keep things - mom's notes for my first wedding reception included a breakdown of costs (4 bottles of vodka and a half-gallon of bourbon for $30, a box of mints for $2.50). She kept every card I ever made, an ongoing list of household expenses, and boxes upon boxes of photographs that I'm still sorting through.

Being descended from a keeper makes letting go of my own stuff all the harder. A number of years ago, a sponsee told me that she'd burned her old journals. I gasped in horror, with two large boxes of diaries from 5th grade forward in a back closet. But, a couple of years ago, I took the plunge myself, gleaning what felt worth hanging on to for future reflection (the first year of sobriety for example).

When I first opened the notebook over the weekend, I considered torching the whole lot, but reconsidered. It is helpful, every once in a while, to remember what a self-righteous snit I was, both to celebrate where I am today, and to serve as a map to what might still be lurking below the surface. My dysfunctional characteristics used to be overt - blame, deflection, dishonesty. These days my defenses are more various subtleties of emotional dishonesty, of looking outward for the source of my discomforts. My old writings, no matter how embarrassing, keep me tethered to my humanness, lest I ever forget just how delusional I was.

Living near the neighborhood where I grew up, my whole life is attached to memory when I'm in that frame of mind. As I run up a particular hill, I recall the panic of a bee flying up my shirt as I rode my bike to a swim lesson. As I drive by the corner market, I remember sneaking into the storage room to eat the candy we'd just stolen. Passing a friend's house, I remember the basement party where I kissed one of the cutest guys in school. That park is the first place I shot up outdoors, and this park is the scene of high school revelries and recent reunions. My city has grown up around me, not always in good ways. But it is home and the repository of a lifetime's experiences.

According to Mae West, "You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough." Formerly viewing the world through the lens of scarcity (never as much love, booze, or time I thought I needed), enough feels richly abundant.

On Monday, a friend and I rode our bikes around Sauvie Island, a lovely farm community nearby. While prepping for the ride, I got the idea to take along some of my first husband's ashes to scatter in the mighty Columbia. When I asked if there was anything he'd like to do, knowing that the end was in sight, he mentioned going to one of several rivers in the area. We talked about a picnic this summer, once he felt better, but he died in chilly April instead. I wrapped up a small container, along with his photo, grateful that my friend, who also knew him, was up for the detour.

Don't ask me how, but we missed the turn off for the beach (it's not a complicated road), so the little packet came back home with me. I woke up out of sorts the next day, though it wasn't until sitting in my online Alanon home group that I realized my grieving had been triggered. I shared about it, grateful for the nods of care and compassion that signal a safe environment. I also shared with a good friend, who essentially said, "Well of course you're sad," reminding me that grief has no time table.

Grief is a sneaky one. Once past the acute phase, sorrow often shows up for me like a low-level blah. Getting quiet, hearing others describe their efforts at self-care, and letting whatever tears need to flow, allows the sadness to move through. Why do I still need to give myself permission to feel what I feel? Well, I'm human, and it can still take a minute to identify my dis-ease. I appreciate that today, the journey from discomfort to acknowledgement is brief, and I value the reality that once I name my emotions, they move on through, whether sadness or joy.

Speaking of joy, today is my husband's 18th sobriety anniversary. He definitely earned this year's coin, walking through the cancer journey that felt like it came out of nowhere. Our paths would never have crossed if it weren't for our recovery. I'm grateful for all the events and experiences that led to the fateful glance across a meeting room, that led to the conversation a few weeks later, that led to our first date and beyond. One day at a time, we'll see where the journey takes us in the coming year, in the midst of a global "didn't see that coming" phase.

Do you keep old journals or recovery writings? What do you learn about yourself when you look back? What about photos and keepsakes? Knowing that "you can't take it with you," how do you decide what to hang on to and what to release? ( I'm speaking of the material realm, but the same question can apply to personal characteristics as Step 7 instructs us to let go of behaviors and attitudes that harm ourselves or others.)

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 or Credit Card option.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information. ALSO to note - from the web version of this page, you can sign up to have my weekly post delivered to you via email (upper right section of the page).